


Happieness is a butterfly

by saintmary



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, M/M, Slow Burn, Slytherin Harry Potter, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 42,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26441407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintmary/pseuds/saintmary
Summary: Harry Potter is an extremely unlucky person, always getting in the worst kind of trouble whether he wants it or not. Especially when he doesn’t want it. So, of course, after touching a seemingly nondescript magical artifact, he’s transported to the past, where he has to deal with the teenage version of his greatest adversary.All he wanted was one peacful holiday.Why does everything in his life have to be so bloody complicated?
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 142
Kudos: 989





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The characters and the world belong to my favourite transphobe - JK Rowling.  
> (Yes I'm bitter that the author of my favourite books turned out to be a bigoted asshole, what about it?)
> 
> The plot belongs to me.

It is a day like any other in no. 12 Grimmauld Place. 

The walls are just as dirty, the air just as stale, and the mounted house-elf heads just as grim as always. 

After breakfast, just like always, the house’s occupants are directed to one of the townhouse’s numerous rooms, in hopes of cleaning the place up, at least a bit. (Hope springs eternal and all that).

Harry is assigned to emptying a cabinet filled with various paraphernalia, all of which finds its way to the bin; strange vials, jewelry boxes, and animal skulls alike. Harry was never one for discrimination. 

It’s a dull task, but he prefers doing this to dealing with more doxie-infested curtains.

And the dullness and repetitiveness of his work allow him to think. 

He thinks about his trial and about Dumbledore. How he didn’t even look at him, going in and out of the courtroom ignoring him completely. 

He thinks about Ron and Hermione. He thinks how lonely he felt during the summer, how he wanted _someone_ to talk to. He wonders why Dumbledore prohibited anyone from sending him letters. It’s not like Voldemort can’t find out where Harry lives through the Ministry, anyway. _And_ it’s not like he can get into the Dursley household anyway, with the blood wards and whatnot. The blood wards that are the only reason Harry is sent back there every summer.

Harry doesn’t stop working until he spots a dainty, gold necklace. Its cleanness stands out against the dust covering everything else in the cabinet, so he picks it up carefully. It is beautiful - its pendant is made up of two golden hands holding a baby blue crystal that seems to be radiating with a soft light. Harry decides not to throw it away - it is far too beautiful to do so. Maybe he can give it to Hermione for her birthday.

But when he grabs the pendant to put it in his pocket, he suddenly feels like his insides are twisting and turning, like his heart is in his throat and his intestines where the heart should be, and then he’s shrinking and expanding at the same time, and then he’s falling, and falling, and falling, _and falling._

He stumbles back as soon as the terrible feeling ceases, dropping the necklace as he falls over.

“ _What_ in the bloody fuck was that?” he asks, breathing heavily. 

“Yes, indeed, what the fuck?” Harry turns around at the voice, his eyes falling upon a man sitting on a couch. He looks to be in his forties, has a handsome face, black hair, and grey eyes. And he isn’t anyone Harry knows. And he definitely wasn’t in the room just seconds ago. 

Harry looks around, looking where the Weasleys should be fighting the doxies next to the window, but there is no one in the room, except him and the man. The room itself isn’t the room he was standing in a moment ago. It looks _somewhat_ like the Grimmauld Place sitting room, but it’s significantly less… unkempt. The walls are covered with a clean, cream coloured wallpaper, the floorboards are shiny and the curtains look to be doxie-less. The navy blue couch is familiar, as are the grey armchairs and the gold chandelier hanging over the coffee table, but they also look cleaner. So unless the necklace caused him to lose consciousness for a couple of weeks, during which no. 12 has been miraculously brought back to its former glory, he doubts he’s still in the order headquarters. Maybe the necklace was a portkey?

After he stands up, he is immediately overwhelmed with vertigo. He sits down on one of the armchairs and tries to fight the dizziness, all while looking at the other man warily. 

“Where am I?” he asks.

“Number 12 Grimmauld Place, the Black ancestral home” so the necklace wasn’t a portkey after all. But then why...

“Where’s Sirius?” he inquires, hoping to get more answers from his godfather.

The man looks surprised at Harry’s question.

“Sirius died two years ago” he says, and Harry wonders what is happening. Maybe it’s some kind of joke? He knows Sirius is not dead, he saw him at breakfast, looking as alive as humanly possible after spending twelve years in Azkaban.

“Who are you” he asks, deciding to ignore the man’s previous statement.

“I think that the better question is who are _you_ , seeing as you’re the one who appeared into my sitting room without a word of warning” the man drawls, raising his brows.

“I’m Harry. Harry Potter” he answers, waiting for the look of recognition to cross the man’s face. But it never comes. So the man doesn't know him. How? Surely he had heard of the boy-who-lived, especially with Rita Skeeter writing derogatory articles about him almost every day.

“I’m quite certain there’s no Harry in the Potter line” the man regards him contemplatively for a moment. “How did you get here? The wards should’ve stopped you from getting in.”

“What do you mean? I _live_ here” Harry has a distinct feeling that something is terribly wrong. The kind of feeling you get when you’re about to be attacked by a fifty-meter long basilisk or a teacher with a dark lord at the back of his head. Needless to say, Harry doesn’t like that feeling.

The man looks at him as if he is some interesting riddle, a puzzle, waiting to be solved. Harry tries not to squirm under the attention, as he doesn't want to give the man the satisfaction of affecting him in any way.

“Say, Harry, what year is it?”

Seriously?

“1995”

“Ah, that makes sense” says the man. “You see, it’s not 1995, but 1943. August 13th, 1943, to be exact.”

Really? He wants him to believe _that?_ That he traveled _fifty_ years into the past?

“It’s impossible to travel further than six hours into the past” Harry states, feeling tired and annoyed. “Listen, can you just stop it? I’m really not in the mood for pranks.”

The man doesn’t answer him, passing him a newspaper lying on the coffee table instead. And, of course, the first page features the date August 13th, 1943.

“A _newspaper_ is not going to convince me. We’re _wizards_ , I bet it’s not that hard to create a fake paper. Maybe you found an actual paper from 1943 in some archive and then copied it, who knows. Either way, I’m not falling for it.”

The man sighs heavily, looking exasperated. And then he casts the Tempus charm. And, under the hour, there is a date: August 13th, 1943.

_What?_

“Impossible…” he whispers. Because it just isn’t possible. Hermione had said that you cannot travel further than six hours. And this? This is _fifty-two_ bloody _years_ . He isn’t even born yet. Hell, his _parents_ aren’t even born yet. 

But, for all of its impossibility, it makes sense. Why the sitting room is cleaner. Why the man doesn’t recognise him. Why he says there is no Harry in the Potter line. Why he says Sirius is dead. The man sitting across from him must be Sirius’ ancestor. His grandfather, perhaps? Are _Harry’s_ grandparents somewhere out there? Ron and Hermione’s too, probably.

“This… this is too much” stammers Harry, overwhelmed. And who wouldn’t be, in his situation? “I… I need to get back. I can’t stay here.”

And he really _can’t._ Hermione had said that bad things happen to wizards who mess with time. Even his presence here must be creating a ton of paradoxes. How can he even be here, if he doesn’t exist yet?

Besides, he doesn’t know _anyone_ here. He doesn’t have any money, either. Or clothes. Or his wand, for that matter. He left it in his and Ron’s bedroom this morning. Oh, how he regrets it.

“If I may ask, what were you doing before you landed in my sitting room?” the man - Mr. Black - questions.

“I… I was cleaning and then I, er, I saw this necklace and once I touched it, I… I guess I was brought here.”

“May I?” Mr. Black asks, pointing at the harmless-looking piece of jewelry laying at Harry’s feet.

Harry passes him the pendant wordlessly, watching as the man examines it. He’s still in shock. But really, he shouldn’t be. _Of course,_ he’s the only one to ever travel half a century in time. He is, after all, the boy-who-lived-to-have-a-terrible-luck.

“This is an incredibly powerful artifact, Mr. Potter” states the man after studying the blasted thing for a long moment. “I will need to cast some more spells to know more about its properties. Maybe even take it to the Department of Mysteries. However, until I know more, you are stuck in the past.”

“What? No. I can’t be” Harry panics. “Have you not heard me? I _need_ to get back.”

“Yes, I understand, but there’s really nothing that can be done right now.”

“But I don’t have anywhere to go” says Harry. “I don’t have any money here, and I don’t know anyone who could help me.”

Mr. Black hums quietly.

“I assume this Sirius you asked for earlier is somehow related to me?”

“Your grandson, I think? Orion Black’s son. He’s my godfather.”

“Well then, you’re family” says Mr. Black. “You will stay with us. I will inform my wife of your situation, but I believe Orion and Lucretia should be unaware of the exact reason for your stay here. We’ll tell them you’re a relative, visiting us for some time. You attend Hogwarts, I assume?”

“Yes. I’m supposed to start my fifth year”

“Then I will see about enrolling you. I don’t know how long it will take me to figure out the solution to your problem, but you should continue your education regardless of the time period you’re in. Besides, you’ll find that Hogwarts doesn’t change much and I suppose some familiarity will do you good.”

“I would like that, yes” and he really would. Because Hogwarts is his home. His only home.

“Very well” Mr. Black eyes him pensively. “While you’re here, in the past, you mustn't tell anyone about the future. I suspect your presence here already disrupts the timeline in one way or another, but if you shared a detailed account of the future with somebody, that person might try to change it. And the future as you know it will cease to exist. You might even never be born. Say, how good are you at Occlumency?”

_What?_

“Occlumency?”

* * *

Harry very quickly discovers that Arcturus Black is the polar opposite of his grandson. He’s strict, demanding, careful, and meticulous. And, of course, a blood purist. 

Harry is thankful that Lord Black allowed him to stay at his home, but secretly he wishes the necklace transported him to someone less stuck up.

Upon discovering that Harry has absolutely no idea about anything that does not pertain to fighting dark lords, Lord Black begins tutoring Harry in wizarding culture and traditions, pureblood etiquette, and generally everything that “an heir to a pureblood house should know”. When Harry points out that he’s a half-blood _and_ he was raised by muggles, the man just scrunches up his nose and continues his teaching. Harry is grateful he’s not thrown out of the house for his filthy blood, even though it’s obvious that Arcturus’ opinion of him went from “not bad” to “barely acceptable”. 

They take a lunch break, and Harry gets to meet a younger and much more pleasant Kreacher (if such a word can even be used to describe Kreacher). But even lunch is less of a meal and more of a lesson in dining etiquette.

Harry wonders whether Lord Black wants to make a pureblood out of him in one day. 

By the end of the day, he finally understands why Sirius rebelled against his family. Everything just seems so _formal._ Harry hates it. 

But he also learns about Samhain and Yule, and other pagan holidays. He learns what Occlumency is. He learns about family magic, blood adoptions, and magical guardians. He learns about laws and customs and he ponders whether so much has changed in fifty years, or if he just knows so little about the world he calls his home.

Lord Black claims that Harry has to have a magical guardian, but Harry has never even heard of such a thing. 

Apparently, a magical guardian is assigned to children of wizards that live with muggles. Such a person is supposed to introduce the child to the magical world and pay them regular visits to make sure they aren’t mistreated. Nobody has ever visited Harry at the Dursleys.

Harry wonders who his guardian is and Lord Black says that they should be charged with neglect.

The other man asks him about his family in the future. Harry doesn’t tell him much, but enough to paint a general picture of his life. 

His parents were killed by a dark wizard, who also tried to kill him, but failed. He lives with his aunt and uncle, who aren’t very nice. He has to come back to them each year to refresh the blood protection. Sirius is his godfather and he’s a great man.

Lord Black talks about his life and family. His wife, Melania, his daughter, Lucretia, and, of course, his son, Orion, are on vacation in Switzerland right now. He’s the head of the Unspeakable Department. He dislikes the Malfoys - he thinks they’re too ostentatious.

They bond over their dislike for the blond prats.

And even though the lesson were boring, Harry is grateful for the distraction they provided. And when it's finally time for Harry to retire to one of the guest rooms, he is so exhausted that he falls asleep immediately.


	2. Chapter 2

When Harry wakes up, he feels well-rested. For once, he doesn't remember having nightmares. He doesn't remember seeing Cedric's lifeless body or Voldemort rising out of the cauldron.

He stretches and turns to his left, fully expecting to find Ron still snoring on his bed. But Ron's not there. And Harry is not in their room but in the guest room.

In 1943. 

He's still in the past.

He's still in this strange and unknown territory, that he will have to navigate for Merlin knows how long. 

And Ron is not there, and neither is Hermione. And even if he still resents them for not trying to write to him during the summer, they're still his friends. Every adventure he has had, they've been there with him. And now he's alone.

He wonders what they're doing.

Are they worried? Are they looking for him? Is the order panicking? Does Dumbledore care? He certainly didn't look like he cared during the trial.

Sirius is probably losing his mind.

He wonders if he'll ever see them again.

And just when he's about to break down, Kreacher pops into his bedroom.

"Kreacher is bringing Harry Potter little master Orion's robes and telling Harry Potter to join master Black for breakfast" the little elf says, and Harry smiles. It really is incredible to hear Kreacher say something besides "mudbloods" and "filthy blood traitors".

He takes the robes to the bathroom, grateful that he ended up in the '40s and not a hundred years earlier because he absolutely would not survive without running water. 

After a quick shower, he puts on the robes and comes down to the dining room. 

"Lord Black" he nods respectfully, thinking that he has never felt more like Malfoy - dressed in Orion's fancy robes and following pureblood etiquette like a good boy. If Ron could see him now, he would most likely go into shock. 

But he is nothing if not adaptable, and if he is to live under one roof with the Blacks, he wants them to like him. Or at least tolerate him. Even if that means acting like Malfoy. And isn't that a strange thought? 

"Harry" the other man answers, inclining his head. Not quite a nod, but still a sign of respect. "We are a family and there's no need for formalities amongst family. You should call me Arcturus."

Oh. Harry will _definitely_ tell Sirius that he was on a first-name basis with his grandfather. Or maybe not. He doesn't want to cause the poor man to have a heart attack.

They eat breakfast in silence, Arcturus engrossed in the _Daily Prophet_. And for once, Harry is sure they're not writing about him. Here, there won't be an article about his love life, or speculation about him becoming the next dark lord. Here, he's anonymous. It’s nice.

"I'm going to Hogwarts today" says Arcturus when they finish eating. "To ask about enrolling you. In the library, I have left you newspapers from the past couple of years; you should read them when I'm gone, catch up on what you'll be expected to know."

"Now, your backstory" he continues. "In the late 1700s, Altair Alphard Black moved to America. He is presumed to have died childless, as the Black family tapestry doesn't show him to have any children. However, the tapestry would not register any children sired with a muggle. We can take advantage of that. You will pose as a great-great-great-grandson of Altair Black and some muggle woman. Your name is Harrison Phineas Black and you were born July 31 of 1927. Your father's name was James Hyperion Black and he married a British pureblood, Lilian June Tauris, who, coincidentally, happens to be Melania's second cousin. They both died shortly after your birth and you were raised by your squib aunt, who homeschooled you until she died this summer. You have no other close relatives, but since you are related to both Melania and I, we have elected to take you in. Is everything clear?"

That is awfully detailed. But again, Lord Black is nothing if not thorough. Harry appreciates that his story remains relatively unchanged, as it will be easier to remember it, but...

"Why can't I keep my own name?" he asks. His name is the only thing that links him to his parents, the only thing they've given him that he still has, even in the past.

"Unlike Harry, Harrison is an American name, and since your father was American, it fits. I thought you'd prefer it since its abbreviation is "Harry", but it’s still refined enough to fit a Black. Furthermore, you should remember that this name is only temporary. When you go back to the future, your name will still be Harry Potter."

Again, that is very well thought-out. The logic is sound and Harry has no other choice but to accept the story as his own.

Harrison Phineas Black.

Harry thinks he can get used to it. As far as names go, it's not bad. He'd loathe to be named something as ridiculous as Dudley Dursley. But, it does sound awfully pureblooded. Ron would probably drop dead upon hearing it. Sirius, too. Harry smiles just thinking about it.

"I like it" he says.

"I'm glad that you do. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a headmaster to meet."

* * *

Harry spends his day reading. He reads about Quidditch, politics, new laws, new books, the current hot gossip, and the general happenings of the wizarding world. Kreacher brings him lunch to the library, muttering about little masters not taking care of themselves. Harry finds it endearing (if such a word can be used to describe anything Kreacher does).

He learns about the current Minister, Leonard Spencer-Moon, about Montrose Magpies' new beater, and about Gellert Grindelwald.

Because _of course_ he couldn't travel to a peaceful time period. _Of course_ he went from one crazy dark lord to another. Harry vaguely remembers that Grindelwald was defeated by Dumbledore and he hopes that he won't have to fight any mass-murdering megalomaniacs while in the past. (Even though it wouldn't be surprising if he had to).

He wonders what the 1943 Dumbledore is like. Is he still the same man with the grandfatherly smile and the twinkle in his eyes? Or is he different? Will he like Harry or not? It's not like it really matters, but Harry is curious. He wants to see whether the Dumbledore of his time likes him because he's Harry or because he's the boy-who-lived. _Or maybe he doesn't like me at all_ , considers Harry, remembering how the old headmaster forbade his friends from messaging him and ignored him during the trial.

By the time he is called to dinner, he feels like he knows enough to survive a conversation with a 1940's native. Maybe.

He greets Arcturus with a nod and starts eating. The food is good, albeit not as good as Mrs. Wesley's cooking. 

"I have arranged for you to take entry exams next week and when you pass them, you will be accepted into Hogwarts and sorted in September, with the first years" says Arcturus. "If, of course, you're not back in your time by then."

Harry freezes.

Exams? He spent his fourth year worrying about the Triwizard Tournament and thus, was too preoccupied to learn anything. And he only has a week to revise. And no Hermione. How is he supposed to study with no Hermione? That's impossible. Even more impossible than traveling fifty years into the past. Because it just doesn't happen. Ever. 

"Now, you can borrow Orion's books to study. And I must apologise, as I forgot to ask what classes you take, so I signed you up for Arithmancy and Ancient Runes."

What.

Is he supposed to learn Arithmancy and Ancient Runes in a week? With no Hermione? He doubts it would even be possible with ten Hermiones, let alone with zero Hermiones. 

Arithmancy and Ancient Runes.

In a week.

Great. 

He definitely is not having a panic attack right now.

(Yes he is.)

"Ah, from your face I take you did not, in fact, take those subjects" said Arcturus with an amused (amused?! How dare he?!) expression. "But fret not. I'm sure they'll go easy on you, since you have been homeschooled for so long, by a squib, no less."

"Will they forgive me for not knowing absolutely anything about Arithmancy and Runes?" Harry asks, already more stressed out than he was in his entire life (yes, including those times he faced Voldemort. Really, Voldemort is nothing when faced with the necessity od _studying_ ).

"Oh don't worry, you will learn" Lord Black informs him in a voice that leaves no room for arguments. "I will not have you sully the Black family name by performing poorly."

And now Harry regrets ever agreeing to take the Black name. Not that he had much of a choice in the matter.

"Melania and the kids are coming back tomorrow. After lunch, she'll take you to Diagon Alley to get you some clothes, school supplies, and, of course, a wand."

The mention of a wand is enough to make him forget about the exams. He wonders whether his holly wand has already been made. Oh, how he longs to feel the familiar rush when touching the smooth wood of his wand. How he longs to touch the small, wooden stick that saved him on so many occasions.

Arcturus smiles fondly at his excitement.

* * *

Later, while lying in his bed, he ponders why Lord Black cares. 

Harry is a complete stranger. Yes, his godfather is a Black and his grandmother was one too but is it enough to warrant this kind of generosity? Is it enough to feed him, clothe him, teach him and help him? Does family truly mean so much to purebloods, that they would take in a stranger, only because of some distant relation? 

Maybe.

And maybe it's only professional curiosity. Lord Black is, after all, an Unspeakable. Maybe he wants to have him close to observe the effects time travel has on him. Examine him.

It cannot simply be kindness. Very few people have ever done something for him simply out of kindness. And he doubts that the Blacks, of all people, are the selfless and charitable kind.

But, Harry thinks, it doesn’t really matter. He has a bed to sleep in, clothes that fit him, and as much food as he needs. It's certainly better here than at the Dursleys'.

And he is grateful.

Even if he needs to act like Draco Malfoy and catch up on all of his studies in a week.

Hermione would be proud of him. Ron would be terrified.

Harry smiles.

* * *

Tonight, he has nightmares. He dreams of exam papers chasing him around Hogwarts and Voldemort sending his death eaters transfigured into textbooks to go after him. They surround him and scream potions theory at him and Harry thinks he may actually die from that.


	3. Chapter 3

When Harry wakes up, he is, once again, greeted with the sight of the semi-familiar guest room and no Ron. 

He sighs, rubbing his eyes.

He's still in 1943.

He’s still in the time that’s not his own, completely alone.

Just like yesterday. 

But unlike yesterday, today he does break down.

He breaks down because he just wants to live in peace. He doesn't want to fight dark lords, he doesn't want to compete in deadly tournaments, he doesn't want to fight dragons and basilisks and he doesn't want to travel in time. He just wants to live. He wants to go to classes, hang out with friends, get a girlfriend, have a normal life. But he doesn't get to do that. Because he's Harry Potter, and Harry Potter can't have nice things.

And he doesn't want to die. 

He really doesn't. 

But sometimes, just sometimes, he wishes he'd never been born at all. 

Because it would've been easier. 

It would've been easier not to exist because his life is a constant struggle. And it always has been.

He struggled at the Dursleys'. He was forced to clean and cook for a pair of _adults_ as a _six-year-old_. He was pushed over, called a freak, made to sleep in a cupboard, starved, and put in clothes three sizes too big. He didn't even know what his name was until he went to school. Before that, he's only ever been "boy" and "freak".

And then Hagrid came. And Harry had thought, _had hoped_ , that his life would get better. And it did, somewhat. 

But he still struggled. Struggled with constant attention because of something that happened to him as a baby. Struggled with his best friend's jealousy and his other best friend's preaching and berating. With the expectations of complete strangers. With wanting so _desperately_ to live up to the memory of his parents, to make them proud. And, of course, with all the life-threatening situations he's been in each year. 

And after all that, he still had to come back to the Dursleys'. And he was pushed over, called a freak, made to cook and do chores, starved and put in clothes three sizes too big.

And, Harry thinks, nobody _really_ cared. Nobody ever tired to help.

The Weasleys _had_ seen the bars on his window and the locks on his door, but they didn't do anything about it. He _had_ told Ron that his relatives don't feed him enough, hoping that Mrs. Weasley would send him food. And she did, but she never even wondered why. She never wondered why an eleven-year-old boy is not given enough food. Every single summer, she said "you look so skinny, dear" but she never wondered _why._

But it's okay. 

It's okay because Mrs. Weasley cares for him. And so do Ron and Hermione and Sirius and Dumbledore. And they're far from perfect, but so is he. So it's okay. It's okay, because they're the only ones that care.

But he's still tired. 

Exhausted, even.

So he cries. 

He cries for his six-year-old self, for his eleven-year-old self, and his fifteen-year-old self.

He cries because no one ever understood him. His friends have their own families, families that love them. Harry never had that. And they will never understand how it feels to never be cared for, never be loved. 

Ron will never understand that Harry's fame is not a pleasant thing. It's a struggle. The whispers following him everywhere, his photos in the papers and the ridiculous rumours. It's not fabulous. It's exhausting.

And the worst thing is, that the struggle never stops. Because now, he's in the past, and to come back to his own time he needs to please the Blacks. He needs to behave, study, try to be good enough.

But after he comes back to the future, he still has to fight. He has a dark lord to kill because apparently, a teenager is the only one who can. Because people rely on him.

So he cries.

Because sometimes, just sometimes, he doesn't want to be what others want him to be - the boy-who-lived, the saviour. Sometimes, he just wants to be Harry.

And just when he thinks he can't cry anymore, Kreacher pops into his bedroom.

"Kreacher is hearing little master cry, so Kreacher is bringing little master pancakes to make it better."

And then Harry cries some more. Because - Merlin help him - this little elf cares. Kreacher, of all beings, cares whether he's happy or not. 

"Thank you, Kreacher" he says, tears running down his cheeks, and he means it with his entire heart.

"Little master is not needing to thank Kreacher, little master is just needing to get better" and then he pops out of the room. 

And Harry gets better. He eats his pancakes, thinks about Kreacher, and he gets better. He's still not fine, not yet, maybe not ever, but at least he's a bit better.

After breakfast, he takes the robes lying at the foot of his bed and goes to the bathroom. He soaks under the shower for a good fifteen minutes, he dresses, and comes back to his room, only to find that Kreacher has left him a bunch of textbooks on the writing desk.

Harry finds the Ancient Runes book first because he needs to be good. The Blacks had taken him in and the least he can do to pay them back is to be good. To prove that there's more to him than emotional baggage and a scar on his forehead.

And maybe he shouldn't cater to other people's wishes, maybe he shouldn't constantly need to prove his worth, but he's been trying to please others for so long, that now, it's the only way he can live his life.

* * *

He doesn't stop studying until Kreacher calls him for lunch.

As he comes down the stairs he tries to tame his hair at least a tiny bit, wanting to look somewhat presentable when he meets the rest of the household. He needs them to accept him. He needs to be good enough for them. Because if he's not, there's a chance they will throw him out. A small chance, but it's still there. And that small chance is enough to terrify him.

Just in front of the dining-room door, he stops and takes a calming breath. He opens the door with his heart in his throat.

After he enters, his eyes are immediately drawn to Orion. Because he looks just like Sirius. The Sirius that Harry saw in old photos. He does not look like the Azkaban escapee that Harry knows. They don't share the sunken face, waxy skin and underfed build. No, Orion looks like Sirius in his late teens - black hair, grey eyes, fair skin and very handsome face.

Next to Orion stands a beautiful woman, her long, blonde hair styled in soft waves. She looks like one of the models in aunt Petunia's magazines, right down to the impeccable figure and elegant clothing. There is an air of effortless elegance surrounding her, making her appear regal and refined. And incredibly intimidating.

On her right stands Lord Black and in front of him - Lucretia. She looks about eleven, her blonde hair, just like her mother's, styled in braids.

The Blacks do make a pretty picture.

He comes up to Melania, taking her hand and brushing his lips against her knuckles. 

"Lady Black" he says and turns to Orion. "Heir Black" he nods. Then, he takes Lucretia's hand, kisses her knuckles, and says "Miss Black."

He thinks he did fine. Again, he feels like Malfoy, but by now, he's grown accustomed to the feeling. And isn't that a _petrifying_ thought? 

"Oh Harrison, darling, you must call me Melania" says the woman with a somewhat mischievous smile. "We are, after all, family."

"Of course, Melania" he says. This probably means that he made a decent first impression. He looks up to Arcturus and recives a minute nod. He tries not to show just how relieved he is. He knows he failed when Melania smiles at him warmly and pats his shoulder.

As they eat lunch, he notices a couple of things.

Firstly: for all her elegance, Melania is the polar opposite of her husband. She's warm, open, and energetic. She welcomes Harry with open arms and makes him feel more at home than Arcturus ever could. She makes up stories about growing up with her cousin, Harry's 'mother', all while sporting a mischievous glint in her eyes. She reminds him of Sirius _._ While Orion shares his godfather's looks, it is Melania who shares his personality.

Secondly: for all his strict and demanding attitude, Arcturus Black obviously loves his children. He looks at them as if they were his entire world. And they probably are.

Thirdly: Lucretia is a very energetic girl. She fidgets _a lot_ , talks even more, and asks questions about everything, barely waiting for answers before asking more questions. It's charming, in a very stressful sort of way.

Fourthly: all of the Blacks dislike the Malfoys. Melania absolutely _loathes_ the current Malfoy Lady, Cassia Malfoy. She says she's "angry that her husband doesn't love her and feels the need to punish everyone for it" and "a stuck up, old, wrinkled bitch". Harry thinks she hates Cassia even more than he hates Draco and that is saying _a lot._

And, finally: Orion is very much his father’s son. Even though both his mother and sister appear to be relaxed in their home, he sits straight, only ever speaking when asked. He comes off as serious and well-mannered. He rarely smiles, but when he does, his smile resembles his mother’s.

* * *

After lunch, he and Melania floo to the Leaky Cauldron and enter Diagon Alley. 

Harry marvels at how little it has changed in fifty years - there are a few different shops, but the buildings and the atmosphere are the same. It feels just as magical as it always does. 

They go to _Twilfit and Tattings_ first. Harry gets fitted for an entire wardrobe, including formal robes, winter robes, and school robes. Harry thinks it all must cost a small fortune, but Melania just says "don't you worry about it, sweetheart" and goes on to find some more green fabric. "The green matches his eyes quite nicely, don't you think?" she says to the shop assistant.

And Harry wonders why he needs formal robes. It's not like he's planning to stay in the past for very long. 

"Foresight is better than hindsight, darling" Melania says, and they leave the shop 18 outer robes, 3 coats, 23 shirts, and 11 trousers richer. Harry thinks it's all a bit too much, but he decides to let Melania do her thing.

They get his school supplies next. The textbooks, parchment and quills, the potion ingredients, a trunk, and everything else he can possibly need. 

They also visit a magical optometrist. Melania says that he can't walk around in those atrocious eyeglasses forever. Harry privately thinks that he can, but he doesn't want to argue with her.

He notices she likes to fuss over him. He's uncomfortable with the attention, because he's never really been spoiled and cared for, not like Dudley. But it's not that bad. And Melania obviously tries to make him feel welcomed, so he doesn't complain.

She buys him gasses that automatically adjust to his vision. Harry, of course, had no idea that such eyeglasses exist and he wonders why. They would've come in handy on numerous occasions.

After he puts them on, the world immediately looks sharper. He didn't even realise that the world could be so sharp. He just assumed that everything was slightly hazy and blurred around the edges.

Then, they finally, _finally,_ go to Ollivander's.

Mr. Ollivander looks just as ancient as in the future and is still incredibly unsettling. Harry thinks it's impossible for a human to live that long and wonders whether the wandmaker is some kind of magical creature. Or maybe he's just really good friends with the Flamels.

"Ah, Mrs. Black" the man greets, from behind his counter. "Hornbeam, with a dragon heartstring core, 14 inches, unbending. A powerful wand for a powerful witch. Excellent for defence." 

"Yes, yes" Harry can see Melania trying to refrain from rolling her eyes. "I know the specifics of my wand, thank you very much. We're here because my cousin requires a new wand."

"Of course, of course" the wandmaker says, taking out the measuring tape. Harry ponders whether his wand will be different, now that his measurements have changed. "Whatever has happened to your previous wand, young man?"

"He's been using his mother's wand or, rather, _trying_ to use it" Melania answers in his stead. "It simply refused to listen to him and that simply cannot do. Especially since he's starting his OWLs year this September."

"Of course, of course. Inherited wands are difficult, sometimes. Let us try..." he gives Harry a wand.

It doesn't feel right. 

And neither do the next eight.

Ollivander is delighted.

"Tough customer, oh yes" he says with a grin and then goes to retrieve another wand. 

And then, after another four tries, he comes out with a very familiar box and Harry wants to sigh in relief. But, of course, he's not supposed to recognise the wand. So he waits.

"Holly, eleven inches, phoenix feather core, nice and supple" says Ollivander as he passes the box to Harry.

And when he touches the wand, he feels the same electrifying feeling he always feels when touching his wand. It feels like safety and it feels like home and Harry wants to cry with relief. Ollivander says something else, but Harry doesn't listen to him, too happy to care. _He has his wand._ It makes him happy, happier than he has been in weeks.

"Took you long enough" Melania murmurs as soon as they leave the shop.

"Took me even longer the first time around" Harry says with a bright grin.

The woman looks at him thoughtfully but decides not to say anything. 

* * *

They sit down for dinner immediately after they come back from Diagon Alley. 

Lucretia speaks with her mouth full about her best friend’s kitten and laments that she doesn’t have her own.

“But mother, kittens are so _cute_ ” she says, for the fifth time this evening. “They have little ears and little paws and little tails and they’re just so _little_ and _fluffy._ ”

“Darling, you already have an owl” reminds her Melania.

“But owls are not as cute as kittens” pouts the girl. Harry thinks about Hedwig and he disagrees.

He misses his owl.

“How’s studying going, Harrison?” asks Arcturus at one point.

Harry wants to say that he’s only been studying for one day so far, so _obviously_ he hasn’t made much progress. He doubts he will make much progress at all. He has never been very studious.

“Decently” he says instead.

The man hums. “I’m sure Melania would be delighted to help you with Runes and Arithmancy.”

“Naturally” Lady Black _does_ look delighted at the prospect and Harry wonders why. 

They eat in silence for a moment. It is comfortable, sitting at the dinner table with the Blacks and Harry is surprised by that revelation. He’s only met the family this afternoon and they already have made him feel welcomed.

And then comes another surprising revelation.

They’re all Slytherins. 

A family of Slytherins is just as kind and caring as the Weasleys.

Harry feels a headache coming. 

Ever since he met Draco in _Madam Malkin's_ , he associated Slytherins with all things evil and unpleasant. In his mind, every Slytherin was mean, cold, and uncaring. 

Oh, how wrong he had been. And how hypocritical. After all, he _hates_ when people make assumptions about him, just because he’s the boy-who-lived, but he has been doing the exact same thing to Slytherins.

His stupor is broken when Orion speaks up.

“Do you play Quidditch, Harrison?”

“Yes, I’m a seeker.”

“Truly? Are you any good?”

Is Harry a good seeker? Obviously. But it’s rude to brag.

“I caught the snitch in my mouth in my first ever match” he says instead. “One time I broke my arm and I kept playing. I don’t know if I’m good, but I’m certainly dedicated.” He grins.

Orion looks reluctantly impressed, Melania looks terrified and Arcturus looks, as per usual, impassive. Harry swears there is nothing he could do to impress that man.

“How did the snitch taste?” asks Lucretia, as if that was the most natural question in the world.

“Um… metallic?” his answer seems to satisfy the girl because she nods and goes back to her food.

“Well then, you simply must join me and my friends on the pitch on Saturday. We could certainly use a _dedicated seeker_ ” Orion says and Harry is excited at the prospect of playing Quidditch again. He wonders how he’ll do on a broom from 1943. 

* * *

And while he prepares to go to sleep, he thinks that he’s not alone anymore. 

He still misses Ron, Hermione, Sirius and the Weasleys, incredibly so, but...

But now he has Melania, who insists on mothering him, he has Kreacher, who brought him pancakes to cheer him up, Arcturus, who, in all of his strictness, tries to help him, Lucretia, who is… Lucretia, and Orion, who invited him to spend time with his friends.

And they’re Slytherins and they like him for who he is, not for the scar on his forehead.

And, oddly enough, that makes him feel just a little bit better again.

  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

During the next couple of days, Harry discovers that Harry Potter and studying go together just as well as mustard yellow and neon green. That is - they don't go together at all. 

He tries to channel his inner Hermione, but finds out that he doesn't, in fact, _have_ an inner Hermione. 

He tries to make study plans, highlight crucial sentences and keywords, bookmark important pages, and organise his study space, but he feels like a toad trying to be a cat.

His room is a mess - notes sprawled on the floor and notebooks lying on his bed. It looks more like a crime scene than an organised study space.

During those couple of days, his appreciation for Hermione grows. He and Ron never bothered studying, and thus, didn't know how hard it is to do so. He wonders how his friend managed to survive their third year, when she was still using the time-turner. He would probably kill everyone in Hogwarts and then himself with all the stress.

But he still learns.

He still tries, partially because he has to and partially because he wants to. He's never really had a chance to sit down and study, being occupied with dark lords, mass murderers, nasty relatives, and whatnot. He decides to learn because, honestly, why not? (Future Harry will have a thousand reasons for _why not_ but present Harry doesn't know that. Not yet).

Hermione would be delighted with his decision and Ron would feel betrayed. But, again, Harry is nothing if not adaptable.

He studies, reads one textbook after another until all he can think about are arithmantic formulas and potion ingredients. Melania and Arcturus help him as much as they can and Harry has the impression that he now knows more than he has ever known before.

He also practices magic _a lot._ He finds out that the Grimmauld Place wards stop the trace from being activated, allowing him to use his magic freely inside the house. Harry wonders whether it's different in the future or whether the adults chose to keep it a secret, for some reason. He knows Hermione would cherish a chance to practice new spells before the beginning of the school year. 

But still, the closer it gets to Monday, the more stressed he becomes. At some point, he starts to feel like he might lose all of his marbles. It is bizarre - to anticipate your descent into madness. To feel it coming, slowly but surely.

Really, Voldemort should just make him study. This way, he would finally be able to get rid of him. 

His studies consume him so much that he doesn't have time to break down again. They don't give him time to feel anything besides stress. And that's good. Because stress is not this overwhelming hopelessness he felt on Monday. It's doesn't leave him feeling hollow and empty. It doesn't hurt. And he'd rather be anxious than hurt.

* * *

By Wednesday, he finally knows all the reasons for _why not_.

* * *

By Thursday, he starts regretting every decision that has led him to this moment.

* * *

By the time Friday rolls around, he seriously considers going to church or something, because he _will_ need divine intervention to survive this mess. 

Just how Hermione can do this year after year, he has no idea.

After dinner, he is invited to Arcturus' study.

As he makes his way upstairs, he wonders whether that means the man has figured out how to send him to the future. And as he opens the door to the study the stress of the past week gives way to anticipation.

"Tea?" offers the man after Harry sits down.

"Yes, please" the boy accepts the cup, grateful for the break from his hectic schedule. Again, he wonders how Hermione managed to survive their third year. He resolves to ask her later, after he comes back to his time.

"I have made some progress on identifying the magic that brought you to our time" begins Lord Black. "The necklace is ancient, dating back to sometime between the sixth and the fifth millennium BC. Now, as the magic used to create it is so old, it has been long forgotten. That fact makes it supremely difficult to identify the specific types of magic that power the necklace, let alone create something similar to send you forward in time. Now, it is only supremely difficult, not impossible. I will keep trying, but I suspect you will remain here for quite some time."

That… is a lot to process. 

"How long is _quite some time_?" he asks, dreading the answer.

"I don't know" admits the man. "Six months at least. Years, in the worst-case scenario."

_Years._

_Years._

**_Years._ **

The word echoes in his mind.

_Years._

Years spent here, in the past. Away from his friends. Away from all things familiar.

_Years._

Never before has one word sounded so terrifying. The possibility of having to wait for years to reunite with Ron and Hermione makes his breath catch and his eyes water.

"I won't let it come to that" says Arcturus softly.

"What if you won't have a choice? What if you won't be able to figure it out? What if" oh god "what if I stay here forever?"

"You won't" the man assures him, and Harry wonders how he can believe that. He had, after all, said that the necklace was ancient and the magic used to create it long forgotten. He knows that Lord Black is a powerful wizard, he's seen enough evidence for that during the past week, but some things cannot be done, no matter the power one possesses. The chance that he will never see his friends again is overwhelming and crushing, and it makes him feel unable to breathe. His throat constricts and he desperately tries to relax, to _breathe,_ but he can't. He can't, because he's terrified.

"We don't need to know the magic of the pendant to reverse its effects" informs the man, but it doesn't make Harry feel better. He still feels like the ground has been cut from under him. Like the last sliver of hope that he has been holding onto has been taken away from him.

It's terrible and scary and nerve-wracking. He feels raw and wounded, and all he wants is to curl into a ball and cry, pull his invisibility cloak over himself and disappear from the face of the earth.

He comes back to his room too shaken to resume his studies. That night, he cries. He cries at the prospect of never seeing his friends again, of being stuck in this strange place void of all the things he loves.

* * *

Saturday marks one week since he arrived in 1943, but it feels more like a year and a half with everything that happened.

He's still not quite over the possibility of waiting for years for the solution to his time travel problem.

Hermione would tell him to stop panicking, to wait until he knows all the facts. He tries to do just that and manages to calm down, marginally. He resolves to be more like Hermione in the upcoming months (years?). More rational and logical, and less careless and brash (basically, less of a Gryffindor). But there's nothing rational or logical about his situation. Traveling that far into the past should be impossible, and yet here he is. He curses Mrs. Weasley for making him clean that thrice-damned cabinet, he curses himself for ever touching that necklace, and he curses the necklace for even having the gall to exist. 

After breakfast, he and Orion go to the Quidditch pitch to meet his friends. Quidditch is exactly what Harry needs right now - to feel the wind on his face and leave all of his problems on the ground, to forget his impending doom, and get lost in the endorphin high that comes with flying. Quidditch is - and has always been - an escape of sorts for him. Every time life gets too much for him, he goes flying, and right now, life is _definitely_ too much.

“Everyone, this is my cousin, Harrison Black” Orion introduces him after they arrive. “Harrison, these are Tedeus Nott, Evan Rosier, Landon Avery, Cassius Lestrange, and Alphard Black.”

Harry recognises those names.

There is a Nott in Slytherin, in his time, that must be Tedeus' son or grandson. Or nephew.

The names Rosier and Avery ring a bell, but Harry can't place them. He feels them somewhere at the back of his mind, like a persistent itch that won't go away. Harry resolves to think about it later.

Lestrange must be somehow related to Bellatrix, Sirius' cousin, the one that tortured Neville's parents to insanity and is currently imprisoned in Azkaban.

And Alphard is Sirius' favourite uncle. The one whose face on the Black family tapestry is a charred spot, just like his godfather's. The one from whom Sirius inherited most of his money.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance” Harry greets, even though he is slightly wary of the boys in front of him. Some of them will probably support Voldemort in his quest for pureblood supremacy, twenty years from now. 

"Orion has told us that you're a _dedicated seeker_ , whatever that means" Avery grins. "I hope that you're good because we're playing my brother's friends today and I absolutely refuse to lose to him _again_."

"He can't be worse than Travers" Rosier remarks and Harry wonders why that name is also vaguely familiar. 

"Being worse than Travers is a craft very few people can master" Nott says, and the rest laughs.

They seem normal. But, of course, Harry only met them five minutes ago. They could make ritualistic sacrifices every new moon and he would be none the wiser.

"Tom couldn't make it?" Orion asks and a few snorts can be heard

"More like didn't want to mess up his perfect hair" Alphard says. "Or was more interested in the History of Magic textbook than hanging out with us."

"You know him, he's above such foolish and pointless activities. Quidditch is a complete waste of his precious time, time that he'd rather spend reading another dry textbook" Avery agrees.

Harry reckons that this Tom sounds like a lovechild of Lavender and Percy Weasley (and isn't that a terrifying image?) and he wonders whether he'll get to meet the boy. 

They talk for a while after that and Harry is struck by the lack of differences between the teens from the '40s and the '90s. Obviously, they use slightly different language and they dress differently, but the companionship is the same. The bickering, the jokes, the arguing. Harry is grateful for the feeling of normalcy it brings him.

When they start the game, Harry immediately mounts his broom and starts circling the pitch, looking around for the snitch. He instantly notices that the broom is slower and much less responsive than his firebolt but it's not surprising. His firebolt won't be made for another fifty years. Distantly, he wonders what would happen if he tried a wronski feint on the ancient broom. 

He tries to get accustomed to it and notes that it leans slightly to the left, so he adjusts his posture in hopes of evening out its flight. He has to dodge a stray bludger at one point, but he continues to look for the smudge of gold that indicates a snitch. Both teams score a few times and Harry just keeps looking.

And then he spots a glimpse of gold near the grass in the middle of the pitch.

He speeds up as much as he can, struggling to stop the broom from wobbling. He has to evade a bludger and duck to avoid colliding with another player, all while trying his best to balance the blasted broom. He sticks out his left arm, holding onto the stick tightly with his right. 

The loss of a firm hold is enough to make him lose control over the broom, and when he finally manages to regain his balance, the snitch is gone.

He curses and flies up again to keep looking. For a good twenty minutes, nothing happens. But then, he notices the other seeker diving and heads in his direction as fast as he can. He can see the snitch just in front of the other boy and speeds up, chasing the boy. He dodges, ducks, rises, and dives, trying to stop the rival seeker from getting the snitch before him. He lies down flat on his broom and accelerates even more, so much so that he fears he might set the ancient broom on fire. They fly side by side for a while, but eventually, Harry draws ahead and manages to curl his finger around the small, golden ball. 

"That was amazing!" says Avery, after they're back on the ground. "The way you accelerated at the very last minute, I thought you might break the broom in half!"

"Well, brother, looks like you've finally found yourself a good seeker" says a boy that must be Landon's brother. "I hope you're sorted into Slytherin, we could use you. Gryffindor would not stand a chance with you on our team!"

Oh.

With everything that happened, he forgot about the Hogwarts houses. 

He will have to be sorted again. 

He will have to put the sorting hat on, in front of the entire student body, and be sorted again. 

He wonders whether the hat will put him somewhere else this time. He wonders whether he's changed enough to be in a different house. Or whether he'll end up in Slytherin, where the hat had originally wanted to place him.

He isn't as opposed to the idea as he might have been a week ago. Before, he would vehemently protest against it, but not anymore. No, now he won't repeatedly whisper _not Slytherin_ under his breath.

If Ron could hear him now, he would have a heart attack.

"Of course he'll be a Slytherin, he's a Black" says Orion. Oh, he's in for a surprise, thirty years from now, when his own son will take off the sorting hat and head towards the Gryffindor table.

* * *

On Monday morning, he wakes up more stressed than he has been in his entire life. He feels that he might explode from anxiety and anticipation.

Because today, he's going to take his exams. Today, his fate is going to be decided.

Fine, that might be a tad overdramatic, but today is still really important.

He needs to pass those exams. He needs to, because there is a possibility that he will stay in the past for years. There is a possibility that he will stay here forever, even though Arcturus insists it won't happen. 

He needs to pass, because he can't imagine never going back to Hogwarts, never returning home.

That's why, when he takes the floo to the headmaster's office, he feels like his heart might burst out of his chest.

The first thing he notices after he arrives in the office is how different it looks. Dumbledore's office is filled with various trinkets, that provide constant ticking and clicking and swooshing. There's a pensieve at the back and Fawkes' perch behind the desk. Dippet's office has none of those things. Instead, the walls are lined with mahogany bookshelves, filled with books. Everything is organised and tidy, but not sterile. It looks like an office belonging to a scholar, whereas Dumbledore's office looks like it belongs to an antique dealer with questionable taste. 

He takes the written exams first. He performs surprisingly well, considering that he only had a week to study. Of course, Hermione would probably have done better, but she's extraordinary and Harry tries not to compare himself to her, as it will only result in lowering his self-esteem.

The practical exams also go well. His demonstration of the patronus charm earns him impressed looks from both the Charms and Defence professors. During Transfiguration, he is so surprised by Dumbledore's red hair, that he transfigures a box into a lemon drop, instead of a mouse. Dumbledore seems to find it amusing and says he'll let that one go. "I do love lemon drops" he remarks, his eyes twinkling. 

Finally, he is led through the corridors of Hogwarts to the potions classroom. 

During his walk, Harry notices that everything looks exactly how it looks in 1995. The lack of changes makes him feel safe, stable. And somehow, more solid. His throat still constricts at the possibility of staying in the past for years, but the magic of Hogwarts calms him. He knows he will be fine, as long as he can stay here, in his _home._ Because, in the end, everything is always fine when he's in Hogwarts.

When he arrives in the potions classroom he immediately notices how more cosy it looks. Snape's classroom is dark and grim. This classroom feels warm and welcoming (he can't believe that he used _welcoming,_ of all the adjectives, while describing the potions classroom). During his exam, he is required to brew a griding potion. Arcturus tried his best to help him perfect his brewing and it did work, somewhat, but still, Harry is no potions master. And years under Snape's tutelage have made the brewing process an incredibly traumatic experience for Harry.

In the end, the potion turns out a bit yellowish, even though it's supposed to be a grassy green, but the professor seems satisfied.

When he makes his way back to the headmaster's office, he is informed that he can start his fifth year in September.


	5. Chapter 5

Harry spends the weeks after his exams with the Black family.

Melania and Arcturus keep teaching him about the wizarding world. One day, Lady Black takes him to Vertic Alley. It's a smaller and fancier version of Diagon Alley, located in east London. Harry, of course, had no idea that such a place exists. Arcturus gives him books on Occlumency and Harry finds out that he's pants at _emptying his mind._ But he still tries, because he knows he has to. If the wrong person saw his memories, it would be a disaster. He also reads books about magic and practices new spells. He goes flying with Orion again. Lucretia makes him a flower crown and pretends she's a prince and Harry is a princess in need of rescuing. Harry appreciates that, for once, he's the one being rescued. What he does _not_ appreciate, is that at the end of Lucretia's story, the princess dies from anaphylactic shock. Apparently, she was allergic to other people's skin and that's why she was locked alone in a tower.

He enjoys his time with the Blacks, but still, the first of September can't come soon enough. When it finally does, Harry is extremely excited. Just as excited as the first time around, probably.

Lord and Lady Black apparate them to King's Cross at quarter to eleven. The station is crowded. The busy atmosphere is familiar and it brings Harry a certain amount of comfort.

"Oh my darlings, I will miss you" says Melania, hugging her children. Both Orion and Lucretia look uncomfortable but neither one of them protests. "Remember to write every week and to study, and be careful. Don't get into trouble too much."

"Yes, mother" they say in unison.

"They care of your sister, Orion" says Arcturus. "And write, or else you'll break your poor mother's heart. And mine, too."

Harry feels like he's intruding on a very personal moment. He's not a stranger, not anymore, but he's not a part of the family either. He wants to leave and board the train, let the Blacks say their goodbyes in peace, but he knows that leaving without saying a word would be incredibly rude. 

"Thank you for allowing me to spend the past two weeks with you" he says once Melania and Arcturus finish talking with their children. And he means it. He still doesn't know _why_ the Blacks have been so kind to him, but he's grateful nonetheless.

"It was a pleasure to have you, sweetheart" says Melania, and then she _hugs h_ im. Only four people have hugged him in his entire life (that he remembers, anyway). Now he can increase that number to five.

They say their final goodbyes, and Melania tears up a little, and then they board the train. Harry is immediately hit with a sense of familiarity, safety, and _belonging._ He's going home. Home!

He pays no attention as Orion leads him to one of the compartments, he's so consumed with the knowledge that Hogwarts is only a train ride away. That soon, he will sit in the Great hall, fly on the Quidditch pitch and walk the corridors of his only home.

Yes, he visited Hogwarts last week, when he took his exams. But it was only a short visit, a tease. Now, he's going to live there for the next ten months.

The anticipation is overwhelming. 

"Are you excited to start at Hogwarts, Black?" someone asks.

"Very much so" he says because even if it's not the beginning of his Hogwarts journey, he _i_ _s_ excited.

"What house do you reckon you'll be in?" asks Lestrange.

"I don't know" Harry answers truthfully. He knows that it's going to be a close tie between Gryffindor and Slytherin but he's not sure where he'll end up.

"You should ask for either Slytherin or Ravenclaw" says Rosier. "Those are the best choices. Both Hufflepuff and Gryffindor are full of mudbloods and blood traitors. Of course, there are mudbloods in Ravenclaw too, but there's less of them. Of course, there's none of that filth in our house, and thank Merlin and Morgana for that."

Ah. Pureblood supremacy.

This is the first time any of the boys mention their beliefs. Come to think of it, this is the first time Harry hears the word mudblood while in the past. He would rather not hear it at all but he is not that surprised. He suspected that those boys are not as nice as they appeared on the Quidditch pitch. 

Still, he wants to say that muggleborns are wizards too, and that they shouldn't dismiss them only because of their heritage. He wants to say that his best friend is a muggleborn, and that she's more talented than most purebloods. He wants to say that some of the most powerful wizards are half-bloods.

But he doesn't say anything, because he knows it's pointless. 

They're wrong, terribly wrong, but they're convinced they're right. When you ask them to give any evidence to support their thesis they can't, because there isn't any. But they still believe they're right and no amount of common sense is going to convince them to change their minds. It's what they have been told from a very young age, it's what everyone around them believes in, and so, it _must_ be true.

So, Harry doesn't say anything. He lets the other boys complain about the state of the school, about the filth polluting the corridors, and about teachers that are biased against Slytherins, and about Dumbledore, who, according to them, is the most biased of them all.

They tell tales of Slytherins performing perfectly in class and not getting any kind of recognition from the deputy headmaster, all while Gryffindors get points for simply trying. They tell tales of Dumbledore always suspecting the house of snakes of every single bad thing that happens in the school, all while ignoring the bullying that Gryffindors regularly engage in.

Harry wants to disagree, he wants to keep thinking that Dumbledore is fair and just, but then he remembers what happened during his first year. He remembers how Dumbledore made Slytherin believe they won the house cup, before taking it away from them. And then, he doesn't find the idea of the future headmaster being biased so unbelievable. 

The boys also tell him about the castle itself and even though Harry knows it intimately, having lived there for the past four years, he still enjoys their stories. It is nice to hear about Hogwarts from other people's perspective. They tell him about the Great Hall and its enchanted ceiling, about the Black Lake, the squid that lives in it, and about the Quidditch pitch.

After they exhaust all possible conversation topics, and the compartment goes quiet, Harry pulls out his Occlumency book. He hasn't made much progress but the book says it should be expected. Very few people can master the art in under six months. As he's reading, he remembers that Hermione has always been the one with her nose in a book during the train rides and Harry would never, _ever_ have thought that he might be like that too, one day.

Again, Hermione would be proud. Ron would feel betrayed.

At one point, he hears the compartment door open and looks up from the book.

The boy that enters the compartment is tall and lean. There is a prefect's badge pinned on his robes, robes that are in Slytherin colours. His dark brown hair is neatly styled but there is a lone curl falling over his forehead. He's handsome, his cheekbones - _holy shit this is Tom Riddle._

Fuck, fucking fuck, _fuck_.

Tom fucking Riddle is standing right in front of him.

He looks just like the boy Harry has seen in the diary, just like the boy standing over Ginny's unmoving body, just like the boy who wrote his name in the air and rearranged the letters into "I am Lord Voldemort".

Just like the boy from the memory from 1943.

Just _how_ did Harry forget that teenage Lord Voldemort went to school in the '40s?

How could he have forgotten that Tom Riddle, the boy who will grow up to murder his parents, is a teenager in this time?

How could he have forgotten that 1943 is the year the Chamber of Secrets has been opened for the first time, by no other than teenage Lord Voldemort.

"Hello" the boy says to everyone as if saying hello was the most natural thing in the world for dark lords, and then - _oh god -_ he looks at Harry and sticks out his hand. "Tom Riddle."

Is he supposed to _touch_ Lord fucking Voldemort? Even ignoring the incredible pain that always comes with the experience, _he doesn't want to._

"Harrison Black" Harry says, but doesn't take Riddle's hand. He knows it looks as if he's snubbing the other boy because of his muggle name, but he can't find it in himself to care. He'd rather come off as a spoiled, snotty pureblood than touch Riddle's hand.

He _knows_ that he just earned himself a place on Riddle's _to maim and murder_ list because of the way the prefect's eyes narrow. And from the looks on the other boys' faces, they know it too. But _he doesn't care._

And then, he remembers why he recognised all those names on the Quidditch pitch.

They all were Death Eaters.

The boys surrounding him are Riddle's first followers.

Fuck.

He played Quidditch with young Death Eaters. _He lived under one roof with a Death Eater._

Well fuck.

He's so shocked he doesn't say anything else for the rest of the ride, instead pretending that he's reading his book. He doesn't know how to make sense of his situation. Lord Voldemort. Death Eaters. Oh Merlin. His head hurts because, really, it's too much for him. He should've expected that. He should've known that his life cannot be that easy. _O_ _f course,_ he would be the one to travel fifty years into the past, hang out with the first-ever Death Eaters and meet a teenage Dark Lord. He doesn't know why he's even surprised.

But he still is. And in his stupor, he misses the moment the train stops and he misses the moment he steps out in the Hogsmeade station. He misses the moment he's led to a boat with two first years and he misses the astonished gasps of the children when they first see the castle. He doesn't even look up at Hogwarts, because he's so shocked that he just met _Tom Riddle,_ the heir of Slytherin and the future dark lord. Because he's been hanging out with Orion Black, one of the first Death Eaters, for the past two weeks. Because he foolishly thought his life could be normal for a while.

He wants to jump out of the boat and drown.

Of course, on some level he knew that Orion and his friends will eventually become Death Eaters, but he didn't realise it already happened.

He feels so fucking stupid.

His brain only starts working when he walks into the Great Hall, trailing behind the first years who, right now, are oohing and aahing, and pointing at the ceiling with awed expressions on their faces.

As Harry looks around the Great Hall, he feels at home. He feels safe and grounded. The atmosphere here is calming, allowing him to relax ever so slightly. And it's different, yes, but in a way, it's still the same (except for the fact that Lord Voldemort is sitting at the Slytherin table, but Harry tries not to think about that, or else his brain might shut down again).

He feels the castle's magic envelope him in a tight embrace and relaxes a bit more.

"Atkins, Catherine" the first name is called and the girl is promptly sorted into Hufflepuff. It goes on that way for a while, until Yaxley, Miranda is called. 

"This year we are also joined by a transfer student, Harrison Black" Dumbledore says after Miranda makes her way to the Slytherin table. People start whispering at that announcement and looking at him excitedly. The whole thing has a deja vu quality about it. Harry wonders why he can't get a break from all the attention, even when he should be unknown here.

The whispers follow him as he sits down on the stool and accepts the sorting hat from Dumbledore.

 _Oh, what an interesting mind you have,_ is the first thing Harry hears after putting on the hat. _Plenty of courage, oh yes, kindness, too. You don't lack intelligence either. Or cunning. And secrets, so many secrets. Where to put you, where to put you..._

Harry chooses not to think of his preferences, deciding to let the hat do his job this time.

 _A wise choice indeed,_ the hat chuckles. _Let's see... You would do well in all of the houses, I think. But there's greatness in you, oh, such greatness. You could change the world, you know?_

 _I don't really want to change the world,_ Harry thinks. _I just want to be me._

_Why not do both? Why not be you and change the world?_

Why not? Because Harry doesn't want the attention. Because he doesn't want people to constantly judge him, hate him one day and love him another.

 _Oh, you needn't be famous to change the world,_ the hat says. _On the contrary, some of the greatest changes happen behind closed doors, away from the public._ _Alas, I digress. You don't have to change the world, you just have the potential to do so. You will do best in either Gryffindor or Slytherin. Any preference?_

Great. Just after he decides to let the hat choose for him, the blasted thing gives him a choice. 

He still takes his time to consider his answer.

Gryffindor is familiar. It's safe. Predictable.

Slytherin is none of those things.

But then he thinks about Gryffindor without Ron and Hermione. He thinks about spending his evenings in the common room without his friends sitting next to him. Because while Gryffindor is familiar, it is also different. Because his friends aren't there. And he knows that waking up every day in the Gryffindor tower, knowing that his friends aren't there with him, is only going to bring him pain.

 _Fine, put me in Slytherin,_ he thinks, resigned. Ron is definitely going to kill him.

 _"SLYTHERIN_!" the hat yells out for the entire hall to hear and Harry takes it off and hands it over to Dumbledore.

And as he makes his way towards his new house table, he makes eye contact with Tom Riddle.

Oh fuck.

He's going to share a dorm with Lord Voldemort, isn't he? 

He forgot about the other boy just for a moment and now he's going to have to sleep in the same room with him for Merlin knows how long.

Is it too late to run back to Dumbledore and ask to be resorted? 

He is about to do just that, but then Orion grabs his arm and pulls him into the seat next to him.

"Told you you'll be a Slytherin, cousin!" he says, obviously excited.

"It took you a while under there" says Riddle, eyeing him curiously. 

Even though it's a statement, Harry knows the prefect expects an answer. But he doesn't say anything, ignoring the boy and pouring himself some pumpkin juice.

All throughout dinner Riddle keeps looking at him and Harry pretends that he doesn't notice him. He talks with his new housemates, but only half of his mind is in it. The other half is wondering how he'll survive living in the same dorm with Riddle, when the other boy already wants to murder him. 

He resolves to research warding spells tomorrow, in the library. Oh Merlin, he really is turning into Hermione, isn't he? 

After dinner, Orion, Avery and Rosier lead him to the Slytherin dorms. He already knows how to get there, but he's not supposed to know his way around the castle, so he allows himself to be led to the dungeons. Riddle, thankfully, is not with them at the moment, as he has to take care of the first years. 

"This is the entrance to our common room" says Rosier, when they reach an inconspicuous stretch of stone wall. "To open it you need to say the password. It changes every week. This week it's: _lachesis muta_."

After Rosier says the password, the stone wall rearranges into an archway, letting them in.

When he enters the Slytherin common room, he immediately notices how beautiful it is. He doesn't know whether it looks different in the future, or whether he's simply been preoccupied with finding out who the heir of Slytherin is to notice, but he doesn't remember the room to be this pretty.

It's big and offers plenty of privacy, should anyone want it. There are floor length windows looking out into the Black Lake, that let an eerie, green light into the room. The walls are, surprisingly, not green, but covered with wooden panelling. There still is plenty of green, though - the velvet armchairs are green, and all the rugs, cushions and curtains are also green. The couches are covered with black leather. There are bookcases built into one of that walls and paintings in silver frames hand on another. Over the fireplace there is a huge painting of a snake that somewhat reminds Harry of Nagini. 

There are no animal skulls and bizarre artifacts and Harry wonders whether Snape added those after he became the head of Slytherin. It certainly seems more like his aesthetic than the luxurious room Harry is standing in right now.

This room looks classy but still cosy, whereas the room he remembers from his second year looks like a medieval vampire lair, with couches instead of coffins.

"You look impressed, cousin" says Orion with a grin.

"Of course I'm impressed" says Harry. "It's incredible."

"Well, obviously. We, Slytherins, only settle for the best. Let's show you our dorm."

The dorm turns out to be just as incredible as the common room. 

The first thing Harry notices, is how big it is in comparison to the Gryffindor dorm. There are eight beds and eight writing desks here, but the room still offers plenty of space. There's even a couch in front of one of the windows and two armchairs in front of another.

It makes sense that the Slytherin dorms are bigger. They are, after all, in the dungeons, which, unlike the Gryffindor tower, offer plenty of space. Still, Harry is just a _little bit_ jealous on behalf of his friends in the house of red and gold.

He makes his way over to the bed next to which his trunk is lying. He notices the bedsheets are silk. _Of course_ Slytherins have silk sheets.

"Listen, Harrison" begins Avery and Harry looks up at him. "While we're here alone, we need to warn you. _Do not_ get on Riddle's bad side. Yes, he's a half-blood, _but_ he's incredibly powerful _and_ he's a descendant of Salazar Slytherin himself. He already doesn't like you but don't make it worse or else he'll make your life a living hell."

 _He already killed my parents, how much worse can it get?_ Harry thinks, but doesn't say anything.

Orion looks at him worriedly and Harry nods, just to show that he understands their warning. But he doesn't care. He probably won't try to refrain from antagonising Riddle.

Yes, he knows that the boy is already dangerous, even at the tender age of fifteen but...

But he already faced Voldemort twice. And the man is undoubtedly more experienced and powerful than the teenager Harry met a couple hours ago. He's not scared of Riddle.

However, he still _will_ go to the library to research those warding spells tomorrow. 

He'd rather not be murdered in his sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Harry spends the first few days back in Hogwarts trying his best to look lost. He knows the castle better than any other place in the world but he _can't_ _show it._ He can't use a secret passage to get to the library faster, because he's not supposed to know about it. He takes care not to avoid every single trick step and correctly predict the movement of the staircases every single time. Because he's not supposed to know how to do it.

It's harder than he thought it would be. 

It's automatic. Four years of muscle memory are enough to allow him to navigate the castle without second thought, and enough to make his fellow students question his ability to get everywhere on time. He doesn't have to think about those things, he just _knows them._ And now he has to _unknow_ them.

But even with all his knowledge, he doesn't get everything right every time.

He would've been late to his first defence against the Dark Arts class if not for Orion because it is now held in a different classroom. It's still on the third floor but in another corridor. 

It's one of those things that are different about Hogwarts in 1943. It's weird - how everything can be so familiar yet so strange. How some things remain the same and some change.

Perhaps the most important of those things is that he's now _a Slytherin._

It takes some getting used to.

On four different occasions, he started heading in the direction of the Gryffindor tower, only to remember that he lives in the dungeons now.

One time he even walked up all the way to the fat lady's portrait, only to realise that he doesn't know the password. Because he's not a Gryffindor anymore.

It's so different in Slytherin. So... _not Gryffindor_.

And not only because he now wears green.

For one thing, it's quieter. Calmer. The common room is filled with soft chatter, not with the constant noise of the Gryffindors. There are no screams and bursts of laughter. Harry both loves it and hates it. He loves the ability to hear his thoughtswhile sitting in the common room, and he hates the formality of it all.

There is also a set of rules that every Slytherin has to abide by. Harry doesn't remember them all but they all come down to one thing - what happens in Slytherin, stays in Slytherin. The house of snakes is, allegedly, the house that is looked down upon by other houses, which makes it necessary for Slytherins to present a united front. Harry doesn't know whether he believes it or not. In his experience Slytherins are the ones who always think better of themselves.

And, naturally, there are _politics._ Harry expected nothing less from the house of manipulators. Still, he's surprised by how dedicated all of the Slytherins are to their game. They blackmail, trade information, and backstab everyone they can, like the inner house politics matter in the life after school. Like they can give them anything besides the satisfaction that comes from standing at the top of the ladder. Or as close to the top as they can get. Because the top is taken.

By none other than Tom Marvolo Riddle.

They all respect him. Fear him, even. Every single one of them. Harry wonders what Riddle has done to inspire those feelings in his housemates. He's only a fifth year. And a half-blood, at that. He wonders what terrible deed the boy has committed to make the staunch blood purists bow down to him.

Probably something involving a lot of torture.

Not that he _looks_ like he's torturing people in his free time. No, he looks like a smart, studious, helpful, and perfectly amicable boy.

It's not what Harry expected from teenage Lord Voldemort.

He half-expected him to walk around with bloodstained hands and curse everyone left and right. He definitely expected him to throw hateful glares at muggleborns and half-bloods. To appear less... nice.

Harry knows it's an act. He does. He _expected_ an act from Riddle, a façade for the world to see. But he didn't expect it to be _that good_. He expected hints of red in the other boy's eyes and cracks in that impeccable mask.

His act is so good that there are moments when Harry forgets who he's dealing with. Moments during which he forgets that this boy is just a couple months younger from the boy who released a basilisk into the school, ordering it to attack muggleborn students.

He doesn't know how to deal with that - with those moments when Tom Riddle appears to be just another teenager, not a psychopathic megalomaniac.

He's strange and unfamiliar, unlike the Voldemort of his time.

Harry knows the dark lord. His rage and madness are familiar. The constant anger that he doesn't bother to hide. The cruel laugh and affinity for torture. But the boy Harry shares a dorm with is definitely unfamiliar. 

He's smart. Tidy. Organised. He wakes up early, earlier than anyone else in their dorm, and goes to sleep deep into the night. Which, naturally, gives him plenty of time to plan world domination. (Probably. But what else can Lord Voldemort be doing at midnight?). When he's not plotting how to take over the planet, he's studying. Like, _a lot._ He reads even more than Hermione, which Harry previously has thought to be a feat impossible to accomplish. 

He's also very human.

He rarely eats sweets and he hates pumpkin juice. He takes his tea black with one spoon of honey. He doesn't like tomatoes. He sleeps with an extra blanket because he's always cold.

He has quirks and habits, he likes some things and dislikes others. There's more to him than cruelty and madness.

It's weird to see the future dark lord behave like a human _._ To drink tea, eat, sleep, and read books.

He never imagined Voldemort doing all of those things. But he has to, right? He can't just torture people all the fucking time. 

The thought of Voldemort drinking tea is horrifying. Because it makes him just a little bit more human.

And Voldemort is not supposed to be human. He's supposed to be the monster, the cruel, heartless, and soulless creature that plagues your worst nightmares. He's not supposed to _read books_ while sitting in his favourite armchair. There is not supposed to be any humanity left in him.

But the realisation that Voldemort used to be a human makes him a bit more real. And a bit more terrifying. 

It makes Harry realise that he's not just some shapeless entity but a real, breathing being, who is capable of bringing actual harm to him and the people he loves.

Harry has never been this confused and terrified before. Never before has he entertained the thought of Voldemort being anything but monstrous but somehow, his humanity makes him all the more frightening.

He's only a man, but still manages to be as terrible as any monster.

* * *

During the next couple of days, Harry struggles to get used to going to school in the '40s. 

(And not solely because Lord Voldemort, in all of his human glory, sleeps in the bed across from him.)

It's not all that different from school in the '90s but some things just mess with his head.

Like actually being able to brew potions peacefully, without his teacher calling him an idiot all the time.

Every time he enters the potions classroom, he half expects Snape to glide into the room with his robes billowing behind him and start yelling something. But it never happens.

Because there's no Snape here. Instead, there's Horace Slughorn, who, apparently, doesn't like to impersonate overgrown bats. 

The professor is a somewhat eccentric, but still amicable, man. During the first potions lesson, he invited Harry to "a club for the most talented and promising of my pupils." Harry thinks it sounds awfully elitist and he wonders whether anyone is this little _club_ is not a pureblood. Well, anyone except Riddle, of course. Because the other boy is undoubtedly a part of it. That's why Harry will never show up to any of their meetings. He doesn't want to spend any more time in Riddle's proximity than absolutely necessary.

Another messed up thing about 1943 is that the DADA professor has apparently been teaching the subject for _fifteen_ _years._

This revelation threw Harry so thoroughly that he could barely hide his surprise. 

When the professor saw his shocked expression she said: "I know I don't look that old, but your shock still flatters me, Mr. Black."

He never realised that DADA once had a teacher who held the position for longer than a year. He thinks it must be nice - to have that consistency, to know that during the next year the class is going to be the same as during the previous one. Sure, his last two teachers weren't that bad (ignoring the fact that Lupin tried to kill him in his feline form and Moody was not really Moody but a polyjuiced Death Eater), but both Quirell and Lockhart were absolutely dreadful. He wonders how it's like to have a good teacher, year after year.

History of magic also comes with a surprise. Binns is alive! He is made of flesh and bones, and has a healthy flush to his cheeks. Still, his voice is just as monotonous as in 1995, and he's just as terrible at teaching. One would think that he'd have more vigour while alive but, really, his lectures are still unbelievably boring.

Another baffling thing about this time is that Dumbledore is his teacher. He's not the headmaster but the transfiguration professor. Harry now sees him often, both in the classroom and on the corridors. It's not like before - seeing the man only in the headmaster's office or during meals. Or in the hospital wing, after some grand catastrophe.

It's both good and bad.

Good because Harry likes Dumbledore, bad because Dumbledore doesn't like him.

Harry wonders whether it's his green tie that makes the man dislike him so. It probably is, since he can't remember ever saying anything impolite to the future headmaster. 

It's upsetting. Dumbledore has always been as close to a grandfather to him as anyone could get. Harry looked up to him since he first _heard_ about him - he was the kind headmaster and the greatest sorcerer in the world, after all. _Great man, Dumbledore,_ Hagrid had said, and it was enough to convince Harry that the headmaster is the epitome of all things good.

And, after he met the man, his admiration only grew. He appeared to be omnipotent, a beacon of light and a well of wisdom. His twinkling blue eyes and his grandfatherly demeanour endeared him to Harry immediately.

The man who now teaches transfiguration is different from the man Harry knows from his years at Hogwarts. 

He should've expected it, really. After all, he did travel _fifty_ years into the past. It is only natural for people to change during that amount of time.

Besides, in the future, Dumbledore knows him. Here, he's just another Slytherin.

Still, it makes him sad.

But the saddest and most messed up thing about 1943 is that Ron and Hermione are not here with him.

Everything else doesn't matter, not really. All of the differences are shocking now, but Harry knows that once their novelty wears off, he won't even notice them. 

But he will always miss his friends. 

Hermione explaining complicated concepts, sitting with her nose in a book, dragging him off to the library, making him do homework and study. Ron stuffing food in his mouth during every meal, joking about everything, complaining about Slytherins all the time, and vehemently refusing to do any schoolwork. Their bickering, their adventures - he will miss it all.

He will only stop missing those things once he is reunited with them. If he will be reunited with them at all, that is. There's a chance that he won't, and it's crushing.

Because even if they're not always the best friends, they have been with him through hell and back. They have helped him whenever he needed help and they supported him whenever he needed support.

And now they're not here, and he has to deal with a young dark lord and spiteful Dumbledore on his own. It makes him just a _little bit_ terrified.

* * *

Harry is in the library, engrossed in a book on runic warding. Riddle might not have indicated the desire to attack him in his sleep just yet, but better safe than sorry. Harry doesn't expect much from him. After all, his future counterpart tried to murder an _infant,_ as if a one year old child could threaten him in any way.

He has his notebook out, and his notes are scrawled all over its pages.

He tries his best to find something helpful but his research skills are average at best. Hermione has always been the one able to find _anything_ in the library.

Once again, his chest aches with longing for his friends.

But even with his abysmal research skills and the glaring lack of Hermione, he is able to discover several new runes and rune combinations that might be able to keep Riddle away. 

Emphasis on _might._

The other boy is intelligent, far more intelligent than Harry is (even if it pains him to admit it), and would probably be able to break his enchantments with little to no trouble. Still, some degree of protection is better than no protection.

Right now, Harry is looking for a way for him to be notified when someone starts tampering with the runes. He thought that a simple trigger spell would be enough but, according to the book, some of the runes are incompatible with various trigger spells. Harry still doesn't know the reason for that, besides serving to make his life harder.

Hermione would've been able to solve this problem is less than ten minutes, whereas Harry has been thinking about it for an entire day.

Just when he's about to look for another book to cross-reference what he's read in this one, he is interrupted.

"You're the transfer student, right?" asks a girl in Ravenclaw robes.

"Yeah, I am" it's not the first time someone has asked him that question. He thought (hoped) that without the boy-who-lived fame he would finally be given a reprieve from the constant attention, but it turns out that transfer students are just as popular as dark lord vanquishers. Unfortunately.

"Your name is Harrison, right?" she asks. She looks familiar. She even _sounds_ familiar. He looks at her intently, trying to remember where he's met her.

Oh.

_Oh._

It's moaning Myrtle.

But _not dead._

She looks exactly like he remembers her to look. Except she's not deathly pale. Or transparent.

Just like Binns, she is alive - made of flesh and bones, with a healthy flush in her cheeks.

Oh. _Of course_ she looks the same. She will die only in a couple of months. 

Harry, once again, feels incredibly stupid.

He knew that the Chamber of Secrets was opened in 1944. He knew that Riddle was sixteen when he ordered the basilisk to kill Myrtle. But he didn't connect the dots. Again. He didn't connect the fact that Myrtle is alive to the fact that she's _not a ghost._

No wonder he's not a Ravenclaw.

He should probably make a list of everything that happened in the '40s and how it might be relevant to his situation. Maybe then he won't miss any more important information.

"And you're Myrtle" he says, just in case he's wrong. He's sure that he's not, but with everything that has happened lately, his definition of _sure_ changed from _definitely_ to _maybepossiblyperhaps._

"You know my name?" the girl perks up.

"Um... yeah" he mentally kicks himself. How is he supposed to explain that? _He's not supposed to know her name._ He's already garnered attention for his (hopefully) inexplicable knowledge. He doesn't need more people wondering how he knows the things he knows.

"Oh my god, Olive Hornby will never believe me! Harrison Black knows my name! That's so cool! Well, I wanted to ask you if you'd help me with runes I can see that you're reading some pretty advanced stuff and I have some troubles with..."

The girl goes on talking for the next ten minutes.

She didn't even question why he knows her name. It's not like she ever introduced herself to him.

She just started talking.

He doesn't even know _why_ she came up to him, as it's only the second day of classes today, and there's no way she already needs tutoring. _And,_ if Harry is correct, she's a third year, so it's her first year taking runes - of course she's going to have problems in the very beginning. 

Harry might be oblivious sometimes, but he knows that her excuse is a load of bull.

He doesn't want to think badly of her, knowing what is going to happen to her just a few months from now, but Merlin is she annoying.

The constant stream of words coming out of her mind is exhausting. 

She just talks, and talks, and talks, about nothing in particular. 

She said that she needs help with Runes, but right now, she's talking about Michael Lawrence and his big teeth. Harry doesn't know how _that_ happened.

It's galling. _She_ is galling.

He wonders how Lucretia can talk all the time and make it sound pleasant and endearing, but when Myrtle does it, it's irritating.

Still, she doesn't deserve to die. He feels sorry for her.

So he sits there, indulging her, pretending to listen until he can't stand the sound of her squeaky voice anymore. Then, he excuses himself with a made-up story and promptly leaves the library.

His head hurts. 

He will try to avoid talking to Myrtle again.

But he still feels bad for her.

He still wonders whether he can save her.

He wonders whether he should try to do it at all. Both Hermione and Arcturus said that bad things happen to those that meddle with time. Who knows what he would change by preventing the girl's death.

He wants to do it. He does. Because nobody deserves to die at thirteen.

He shouldn't do it.

He should keep his head low and avoid any situations that might change the history.

But when has he ever done what he was supposed to do?

He wonders whether Riddle has already found the Chamber of Secrets. Probably not, as he would most likely order the basilisk to attack the students immediately, in order to complete "Salazar Slytherin's noble quest" or some other bullshit like that. 

So - Riddle doesn't know where the Chamber is, yet. 

Should Harry try to prevent him from ever finding it, somehow? 

Should he meddle with time and face the consequences of his actions later? Like a true Gryffindor?

He thinks it's worth a shot. Because he _might_ have a people saving thing and because, _maybe,_ he can't bear the thought of standing by and watching Riddle murder an innocent girl.

Maybe he could put a notice-me-not charm on the sink that guards the entrance to the Chamber.

But he's read that some people can feel magic when it is cast. And if, by any chance, Riddle is one of those people, it will only make him find the entrance faster.

He would not be able to feel runic magic, as it is mostly undetectable. But Harry doesn't trust his knowledge of runes enough to use it to save a life. Besides, it would take him ages to put the right runes in the bathroom and that would look suspicious. Especially since the entrance is in a girls' lavatory.

 _No_ to notice-me-not charms and runic magic, then.

He can't just outright kill the basilisk.

Can he? 

Well, he's already done that once. 

He decides to label that idea as _plan B_ and focus on creating _plan A_ because he'd rather avoid battling a fifty-meter long snake, if possible.

He could pretend he's a seer and make up a fake prophecy and try to convince Riddle not to set the basilisk on anyone. But that would raise unwanted questions, and Harry is trying his best to avoid those and remain as inconspicuous as possible. Besides, that plan is unreliable at best. Riddle would most likely dismiss him as crazy. He doesn't seem like the type to believe in prophecies.

Or he could wait until Riddle opens the Chamber and then threaten to expose him. Blackmail is a very Slytherin tactic, is it not? But it's also dangerous. Harry doesn't know how Riddle would react to any potential threats. Probably with threats of his own. Or just murder him.

 _Or_ he could show Riddle the Chamber on the condition that the other boy swears on his magic not to use the basilisk for any nefarious purposes. But that would also raise unwanted questions. Riddle has probably been looking for the Chamber for quite some time now, and Harry, a transfer student, found it after a week in school? Riddle would definitely question _that._

Or, maybe, he could reveal his ability to speak to snakes, thus showing Riddle that he is not the only one able to control the basilisk.

Harry sighs.

He misses the simple times - when he only had to play detective, solve mysteries, and fight the bad guys, and didn't have to think about anything else. The plotting and the planning are _exhausting_.

* * *

A week later, Harry is not even a bit closer to finding a solution to his problem.

He just can't think of a sneaky enough way to save Myrtle. And he has to be sneaky, otherwise, Riddle is going to ask questions, questions which Harry cannot answer. Still, he will probably end up doing something completely and utterly Gryffindor, like walking up to Riddle in the middle of the Great Hall and telling him that going to the Chamber of Secrets is a really bad idea and he shouldn't do it. Even though he already disregarded that idea as useless and unreliable.

He still doesn't know whether he should do it at all. He doesn't want to change the flow of time but Myrtle is only one girl. Surely, he wouldn't change as much by saving her as he would by killing Riddle. (Not that he's considering it. Nope. He definitely doesn't lay in his bed at night and wonder what would happen if he murdered Riddle in his sleep.)

When he's not busy thinking about the best way to prevent Riddle from murdering Myrtle, he gets to know his fellow Slytherins.

He learns that both Rosier and Avery have the grace and coordination of a mountain troll in the early hours of the morning. Every single day after they wake up, they run into at least four pieces of furniture and fall over at least twice. It truly is a wonder that they're still alive.

He learns that Abraxas Malfoy is not nearly as annoying as his grandson. He does spend a ridiculous amount of time in the bathroom, but he's actually a decent human being. Harry wonders why Draco turned out to be such a whiny prat, even with decent genes.

He learns that Walburga Black is simply galling. She never, ever shuts up. She reminds him of Myrtle, in that regard. Oh, how angry she would be at being compared to a _mudblood._ Of course, outside of the Slytherins' quarters, she's a perfect lady, but in the dungeons, she turns into a nightmare. She speaks loudly and too authoritatively on subjects that she knows very little about, thinking that the words coming out of her mouth make any sense, where, in reality, they make none. Really, Harry is not surprised that Sirius ran away from home. What _does_ surprise him is how Orion managed to survive living with her.

He learns that Dorea, his future grandmother, knows everything and everyone. There's not a piece of gossip in the castle that she can't either confirm or deny, and there's not a person here that can escape her scrutiny.

He asks her about Tom Riddle.

He already knows _a lot_ about the boy, including a huge chunk of the boy's future, but it can't hurt to know more. Know thy enemy and whatnot.

"He's a half-blood. In the beginning, everyone thought he was a muggleborn but then it turned out that he can speak parseltounge and since it's a gift only the descendants of Salazar Slytherin himself possess, it turned out that he's a half-blood. He's extremely intelligent. The best student in Hogwarts, probably. Most of the teachers love him but Dumbledore absolutely _hates_ him. Even more than most of us, Slytherins. He's uncommonly powerful. And really dreamy…" (here she goes on to describe all of Riddle's dreamy attributes in great detail. Harry tunes out somewhere between "his beautiful, soft hair" and "his strong legs"). "You don't want to get on his bad side. He can be cruel when he wants to. Oh, you should've seen what happened in our third year…" she trails off and Harry has a feeling that whatever happened was not good.

"I wonder whether he's good in bed" whispers Dorea. "I mean, he can't be good at everything, right? Maybe, with all of his achievements, he's compensating for a really small dick?"

That is not something Harry wants to think about.

He doesn't want to think about Lord Voldemort's dick, thank you very much.

Harry excuses himself after that because he really doesn't need that mental image.

When he's not in class or making friends with Slytherins, he reads. He continues trying to study Occlumency and researching warding. He already engraved a set of protective runes into his bedframe. They can't provide the best security but they're _something._ He also, to his genuine surprise, makes progress at protecting his mind. His mental shields are not powerful enough to withstand an attack, but, again, they're _something._

He thinks about Hermione, for the thousandth time in the past month. She would've been proud.

He misses her terribly.

He also tries out for the Slytherin Quidditch team. He gets in, naturally, replacing a sixth year boy named Travers, whose dreadful Quidditch skills are legendary. He seems to be relieved that he doesn't have to play anymore.

Meanwhile, Riddle continues to observe him but has not yet tried to talk to him. The scrutiny makes Harry uncomfortable.


	7. Chapter 7

"Your cousin" Tom says, as soon as he enters the Room of Requirement with Orion in tow. He needs to know more about the peculiar creature that Harrison Black is, because he simply can’t understand him.

When Tom first met him on the Hogwarts express, he appeared to be just another snobbish pureblood who disregarded him solely because of his muggle name. Then, he ignored him throughout the entire welcoming feast, just like any snobbish pureblood would. But, as Tom noticed during the past week, Black is the farthest thing from a snobbish pureblood.

(And, really, isn't that incredibly peculiar? A Black, not acting like a snooty prat.)

Of course, he follows pureblood etiquette, dresses in robes that Tom could never even dream to afford, and knows as much about the wizarding world as any pureblood should. All of that is very pureblooded. The rest of him, however, is not. He’s humble and amicable, he helps when help is needed and doesn't look down on anyone. Not one of those qualities can be attributed to other purebloods. Well, those in Slytherin, at least.

And then there’s his irrational dislike for Tom. Black avoids him whenever he can, and when he can't, he seems content to simply ignore him. 

Tom doesn’t know what he has done to the other boy to warrant this loathing. He always makes it a point to make a good first impression on everyone he meets. The only exception to that was when Dumbledore visited him in the orphanage - he slipped, then. But he has not slipped ever since. He always acts polite, even when he wants nothing more than to slaughter everyone in the room. His mask is impeccable, covering the darkness that resides inside of him and making him appear perfectly amicable. That’s why he can’t understand why Harrison Black decided to despise him the moment he looked at him.

And, really, it’s a pity. The other boy is incredibly powerful, almost matching Tom’s own magical prowess. Tom can feel Black’s magic basically pouring out of him, whirling around him, surrounding the boy in a shield of pure magical energy. He would make a fine addition to the Knights of Walpurgis.

If not for the fact that he absolutely hates Tom.

The prefect sits down on the sofa that the room conjured for him and makes an impatient gesture with his hand.

Really, this conversation is long overdue.

"I don't know that much about him” Orion starts. “His father was American, his mother British. They both died when he was still an infant and he was raised and homeschooled by his squib aunt, who died this summer. He mentioned that she didn't like him very much, but that's it.”

An orphan, then. Just like Tom. Disliked by his guardian. Just like Tom. That's a connection he might exploit in the future.

“And do you have any idea why he hates me so much?” he asks.

“No.”

Tom sighs and thanks Orion. That’s not really much to go on.

He has to do _something_ about Black’s ridiculous grudge before it escalates but he’s not really sure what that _something_ could be.

He could try to befriend the other boy, but with the way things are right now, Tom doubts it would work. Because to befriend him he’d have to talk to him. And Black refuses to even look at him, for reasons unknown to Tom.

But there’s something else about Harrison Black, besides his immense hate for Tom and magical prowess, that makes him both interesting and peculiar. Tom can’t quite name it. It’s like… something inside of Black is calling out to him. Which is ridiculous, because _why_ would he feel that way? But he still feels it. Something pulling him towards the other boy. A connection, of sorts. He doesn’t understand it. Where does it come from? What does it do? He has never felt so helpless and confused before meeting Harrison Black. The green-eyed boy is a confusing and slightly irritating puzzle, a puzzle Tom can’t wait to solve. Oh, how he will delight in unwrapping all of Harrison’s secrets, one by one.

He can be patient.

He will wait, stand by and observe.

He will wait for the perfect moment to crack the boy’s skull open and tear all of his delicious secrets out of it.

* * *

Harry is sitting at the near-empty Slytherin table, chewing on a piece of toast. He feels exhausted - he can’t sleep very well with the knowledge that Lord fucking Voldemort sleeps in the same room with him. He wakes up every time he hears even the faintest of sounds. Every time someone snores or moves in their sleep he jerks awake, clutching his wand. He knows he can’t go on like this but he can’t help it. It’s been almost two weeks since he arrived at Hogwarts and he’s still not comfortable with being around Riddle. And he certainly doesn’t trust the heir of Slytherin not to murder him in his sleep. Even with all the runes engraved on his bed frame, he doesn’t feel safe. In his sleep, he's helpless, making it almost too easy for Riddle to get rid of him, should he find a reason to do so. It's enough to warrant countless sleepless nights on his part.

“Hi Harry” greets Dorea as she sits down next to him, effectively breaking him out of his musing. She serves herself a plate of oatmeal and another plate filled with a fruit salad. Then, she turns to face him and her eyes widen almost comically. “Merlin, you look terrible.”

“Thanks” he says. “I can’t sleep.”

“Ask Slughorn for a Calming Draught. You really look like you could use one. Or ten.”

He already considered taking potions to help him sleep better but he doesn’t really want to, just in case Riddle decides to kill him. 

He knows it’s ridiculous - to constantly live in fear of the other boy, especially since he has not yet even tried to talk to him. He hasn’t tried to confront him in any way, even though he must be wondering who Harry is and why he hates him so much. But the lack of action on Riddle’s part doesn’t put him at ease. No, it only unsettles him further. It feels like the calm before the storm - the air charged and so very close to the breaking point. 

Something must’ve shown on his face because Dorea sighs. “Seriously, Harry. You need to sleep. You look like a dead man walking."

Harry doesn’t say anything to that because he knows she’s right, even if he doesn’t want to admit it.

“Hi Dorea, hi Harry” says Elizabeth Greengrass as she sits down on Harry’s other side. “Oh Merlin, Harry, you look horrible!”

“So I’ve been told” he says, wondering how many more people will remark on his appearance today.

“You look like you haven’t slept at all! Oh and that hair! Do you ever brush it?”

“I do!” he says, offended. “It just doesn’t help.”

“Maybe you’ve been doing it wrong!” she says and promptly transfigures her fork into a hairbrush. She brushes his hair relentlessly, trying to get it to lie flat. Harry knows her efforts are in vain but he decides to let her try anyway.

“I think it’s even worse now” remarks Dorea after a few minutes of tense silence. 

“Surely not” says Elizabeth and leans back to inspect her work. “No, you’re right. It _is_ worse.”

“Told you, it has a life of its own” says Harry with a grin.

“Have you tried using hairstyling charms? Or hair products?”

He didn’t. Because he doesn’t care that much. His hair is terrible - it's a fact of life. It's also one of his most distinguishing characteristics, apart from the scar on his forehead.

“You know, your hair reminds me a bit of the famous Potter hair” says Dorea contemplatively, and Harry tenses instantly. Arcturus told him that his resemblance to the Potters might be a problem but he never told him how to solve that problem. He wonders how many people have noticed their resemblance. In that moment, he’s incredibly grateful for the fact that Charuls is in his seventh year and thus they don't share any classes. Otherwise, he might’ve been in trouble.

“It does! I wonder how I never noticed it before” says Elizabeth. “You know, now that I think about it, you look quite a lot like Charlus. You could easily pass as a family. Brothers, even.”

Shit.

He doesn’t know what to say. He wants to deny it but he knows that that would be pointless. Anyone can see how similar he and Charlus look. After all, the other boy _is_ his future grandfather. 

“Everyone with magical blood is related, somehow” says Dorea dismissively. “Your mother’s family probably married the Potters at one point.”

Oh.

 _Of course_ the most logical conclusion would be that his mother was in some way related to the Potters, not that he is Charlus’ grandson. He wants to sigh in relief. He was so worried about his secret getting out that he forgot that time-travel is _not_ the most logical of conclusions. It is the truth but there’s nothing logical about that truth. After all, it’s supposed to be impossible.

Soon after that, they are joined by Druella Rosier and Priscilla Sewelyn, and the conversation quickly devolves into meaningless chatter about today’s classes. As they eat breakfast, more and more people sit down at the Slytherin table, until it is full of students clad in green and silver. Riddle is there, too, sitting with his chin resting on his palm. He looks awfully bored. Then, he turns to face Harry and raises his brows. There’s no doubt he noticed Harry's staring because he looks to be both amused and a tiny bit smug. Harry huffs in annoyance and stands up, leaving the Great Hall. It’s not that he was _staring._ He was just… well, staring. But only because Riddle is extremely dangerous and _someone_ needs to watch him. Merlin knows most of his classmates seem content to either ignore his bloodthirsty side in favour of fawning over him or to join him in his murderous quests.

He’s so irritated by Riddle that he doesn’t pay attention to where he’s going, and so he's not all that surprised when he runs into someone. 

The someone in question turns out to be a girl in Ravenclaw robes, who drops her books upon the impact.

“I’m so sorry” Harry says, bending over to pick the books up. “I didn’t see you there, I’m really sorry.”

“It’s fine, I wasn’t paying attention either” the girl says with a smile. “I’m Claire Ferring.”

He stands up and passes Claire her books. “Harry Black.”

“Oh, believe me, I know” she grins. “You’re the only thing my friends can talk about. Most of them would kill to be in my shoes right now. Running into _the_ Harrison Black is their dream.”

Harry flushes. He wants to say something, _anything_ but he can’t. “Er…” he manages to get out, to his great embarrassment. Claire is just too beautiful for him to think correctly. She’s tall and slim, and her skin is a warm brown colour. Her long, curly hair is framing her face, softening her features. She looks regal, like the princesses in stories for children. Like them, she looks too pretty to be real, and Harry finds himself at a loss for words.

“I must admit, from what my friends have told me, in their dreams you are much more eloquent than right now” she smiles. “Usually the initial collision is followed by you reciting poetry at them and asking for their hand in marriage.”

“I don’t really read poetry” he says, mentally applauding himself for breaking out of his stupor. It might not have been the most intelligent thing to say but at least he said _something._

“Really? Please tell me you at least own a white horse. Otherwise, I fear my friends will be heartbroken.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t” he says. “Sorry for breaking your friends’ hearts.”

“I don’t know if I can ever forgive you. It is a heinous crime not to own a horse. I don't think I can consort with you unless you acquire a stallion. Or a dog. Dogs are cute too.”

"I don't have a dog, either" he says. He doesn't think that a slightly barmy animagus counts. Still, Sirius _is_ quite adorable in his dog form...

"No pets? What a pity" the girl sighs. "At least you play Quidditch."

“How… Right, I’m the only thing your friends can talk about” he rolls his eyes. “I’m not that interesting. My only redeeming quality is that I’m a transfer student.”

“Is it, really? Do you truly think so lowly of yourself? You're intelligent, good-looking and you're good on a broom, allegedly. You’re every girl’s dream boyfriend.”

Harry blushes, not accustomed to receiving compliments. "I _am_ good on a broom" he says, just to say _something._ "Very good, even."

"And humble, too" she laughs. "I guess you'll have to prove it."

"I play on the Slytherin house team, now. Isn't that enough proof?"

"Oh, I think that the snakes would let anyone on their team, just to replace Travers" she says. "But just because you're better than Travers doesn't mean you're good by any stretch of the imagination."

He laughs. "Fair point."

They regard each other quietly for a minute, before Claire breaks the silence.

“I have to go to class. See you around!”

And then she’s gone.

He stands motionlessly for a while, before turning around and heading towards the transfiguration classroom. He knows he needs to see Claire again. Not only is she beautiful but also smart, judging by the blue of her robes, and most likely plays Quidditch. He needs to know more about her. He needs to talk to Dorea.

When he arrives at his destination, he’s already late. 

“Mr. Black, so kind of you to finally join us” says Dumbledore. “10 points from Slytherin for your tardiness.”

He wants to roll his eyes. The man is just as bad as Snape. He never would’ve thought Dumbledore to be as prejudiced as the slimy git, but he truly is. He never noticed it before, as he has always been the boy-who-lived _and_ a Gryffindor. He was the man’s favourite student. Now, he’s a Slytherin and he is not privy to any kind of special treatment anymore. He understands why the house of snakes despises the professor. Harry came in two minutes late, while most of the students didn’t even have their supplies out, but Dumbledore still took points. It’s ridiculous.

“Now, as you all should know by now, there are four branches of Transfiguration” says the professor. “Who can list them all?”

And so their routine begins. Dumbledore asks a question, a couple of Slytherins raise their hands, Dumbledore ignores them for as long as he can, hoping in vain that one of his Gryffindors knows the answer. They never do. When the man finally lets a Slytherin answer, he never rewards them any points. It’s like that during every lesson. Harry admires Dumbledore’s resilience. He doesn’t give up, no matter how many times his strategy doesn’t bring the desired results.

He spends the lesson wishing for it to end. He needs to ask his future grandmother about Claire, and he finds it extremely hard to wait for the hour to be over. He needs answers. He can see Dorea sitting a few desks in front of him, too far to ask her anything without risking everyone in the classroom overhearing his question.

After the lesson finally ends, he drags Dorea out of the classroom.

“Claire Ferring” he says, as soon as they’re out of the hearing range of everyone in the corridor. He knows that Dorea will understand what he wants.

“Oh Harry, no” she says. “Don’t do it to yourself. Claire is the female equivalent of Tom Riddle - smart, beautiful, and powerful but unattainable. Just about every boy in this school is in love with her but she has never returned anyone’s affections. She’s not the girl you want to fall in love with.”

“Who is saying anything about _falling in love_?" Harry asks incredulously. "I just asked you to tell me about her. ”

The girl sighs. “Fine, but don’t come to me crying after she breaks your heart into a million tiny pieces. She’s a pureblood but from a less prominent family. Her mother has a mastery in Ancient Runes and is accomplished at warding but her father has some useless position at the Ministry. The Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, I think. She has no siblings. She’s a chaser for the Ravenclaw team and, as of this year, their captain. She’s also the fifth year prefect. She performs spectacularly in all of her classes, only ever bested by Riddle. She attends the Slug Club meetings regularly. Her hobbies include, but are not limited to, reading, flying, gardening, and breaking hearts.”

That’s… a lot of information. How Dorea knows all of that, Harry has no idea. He finds it just a tiny bit creepy. He wonders whether she has a file in her head with the name “Harrison Black” written on it.

Still, the information she gave him is useful. He now knows that Claire does indeed play Quidditch. Maybe he could ask her to go flying with him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tom turned out creepier than I intended him to. Oopsie.


	8. Chapter 8

During the next week, Harry doesn’t get a chance to talk to Claire again. 

The Slytherins don’t share any of their classes with Ravenclaws, so they don’t see each other during lessons. They don’t even pass each other in the corridors, going from one class to another. He only sees her at meals, sitting with her friends at the Ravenclaw table, but they never get a chance to talk. One of them always leaves the Great Hall before the other. Harry doesn’t even know whether the girl wants to talk to him again. If what Dorea has told him is true, she probably doesn’t. But Harry hopes that it’s not the case.

They pass each other on the path to the Quidditch field on Saturday. He’s coming back to the castle after three excruciatingly long hours of practice and she’s leading her team to the field, to begin their own practice. She looks amazing in her blue Quidditch robes, with her hair tied in a low ponytail. She smiles when she sees him and gives him a little wave. Still, they don’t talk.

Sunday afternoon finds Harry sitting in an alcove on the fourth-floor corridor with a book on occlumency in his lap. He doesn’t even look at it, though. He knows he should, but he’s already fed up with everything even remotely related to _cleaning one’s mind, occluding,_ and _mental shields._ He doesn’t want to read the bloody thing. He’d much rather be flying right now, even though his muscles are still sore from yesterday’s practice. The weather is perfect for flying today. It’s just one of those warm and beautiful autumn days that make this season truly enchanting. In the sunlight, the Forbidden Forest looks like a sea of gold, the occasional gust of wind making the trees move in a way that’s not unlike the way the ocean moves.

It’s Hermione’s sixteenth birthday today. Or at least it will be, in thirty years. 

He silently wishes her a happy birthday. He still misses her. He still thinks about her every time he holds a book in his hands. _Is she alright?_ he wonders. Does she miss him as much as he misses her? Does she think about him as often as he thinks about her and Ron? Is she celebrating turning sixteen, right now?

“Penny for your thoughts?”

That’s Claire’s voice. He turns around and yes, indeed, it is Claire standing just six feet from him. He stands up from where he’s been sitting.

“Hi” he says awkwardly and just a little breathlessly. He didn’t expect to talk to Claire today, especially not here. 

“Hi” she says with a smile that brightens her whole face. She glances at the book he's holding. “I come here to read, too. It’s nice and quiet here.”

“Yeah” he says because he can’t really say anything else. He wants to smack himself. Why does he have to be so damn awkward? Why can’t he utter a word longer than one syllable? He sounds like a proper idiot right now.

“What are you reading?” she asks, reaching for his book. “Occlumency? Nice. I don’t have the penchant for mind arts.”

“Me neither” he says. “I’ve been trying to learn it for a while now but my mental shields are still paper-thin.”

“Mind arts are one of the most complicated types of magic” she says, sitting down on the windowsill opposite him. “They require enormous amounts of resilience and mental strength. They are often compared to the Unforgivables in terms of persistence one needs to successfully perform them. That’s why a lot of people are pushing to get mind arts qualified as dark magic. They say that the intent behind the magic is the most important thing to take into consideration when categorising a spell, and to intend to hide one’s secrets or discover those belonging to another, one must be an extremely vile and dangerous individual. Which doesn’t make any sense, in my opinion.”

Harry, of course, knows all that. He’s read countless books on mind magicks in the past month so none of that is news to him. But he lets Claire talk. Her voice is melodious, entrancing, even. Her eyes light up as she speaks, obviously eager to share her knowledge. She reminds him of Hermione in that regard. Then again, she _is_ a Ravenclaw. They are _supposed to_ be knowledgeable and intelligent.

“Excuse my rambling” the girl says. “I’m sure you already know all that.”

“I do” he laughs. “But I don’t mind listening to you. You have a nice voice.”

“Why thank you, kind sir” she bows at the waist a little and grins. Then, she sits still for a moment, looking at him pensively. She seems to be considering something. “Do you want to keep reading or do you want to explore the castle with me?”

“Of course I want to explore the castle with you, why do you even have to ask?”

They spend the time until dinner running around Hogwarts like little kids. Claire shows him secret passages and hidden rooms. She seems to know every nook and cranny of the castle. It’s impressive. Harry only knows about those places because of the Marauders’ Map. He doubts he would’ve been able to find them all on his own. And even though he recognises most of them, he still enjoys his time “exploring”. It is fun to run carelessly through the castle’s halls and corridors and acquaint himself with it once again. 

He doesn’t remember having this much fun in a long, long time. He’s always been too preoccupied with dark lord related disasters to just _have fun._ Flying was his only source of entertainment, alongside the occasional game of chess or exploding snap. A part of him is glad that he traveled back in time because now, he can do things he never had the time to do, like exploring or studying. He quickly tells that part of him to shut up. He can't enjoy himself too much - he _needs_ to come back to the future because that's where his life is.

When they arrive at dinner, the entire student body is already there. They had so much fun that they didn’t even notice the passage of time. As they enter the Great Hall, the eyes are on them. Harry ducks his head and makes his way to the Slytherin table, eager to get out of the spotlight.

“Claire Ferring?” asks Avery after Harry sits down next to him. “Nice catch, Black.”

“Or rather it would be nice if not for the fact that now every boy in this school wants to murder you” says Nott with a bright grin. Harry privately thinks that it’s a bit concerning how happy Nott seems to be at the possibility of him being murdered by an angry mob. Then again, the other boy will become a Death Eater, eventually.

“Seriously, couldn’t you shag someone less popular?” asks Rosier. 

Harry splutters indignantly. “We didn’t _shag!_ ” 

“You spent half of your day with Claire fucking Ferring and you _didn’t shag?_ ” asks Avery. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Harry doesn’t answer, instead choosing to ignore his classmates and focus on eating.

Maybe it’s unusual for a teenager not to even think about having sex with the most beautiful girl in school, but he is not exactly the most usual of teenagers. He’s the boy-who-lived and a time traveler, there’s nothing usual about either of those things. He had fun with Claire today and that’s enough for him. He doesn’t need all the… physical stuff. 

He looks up from his plate and notices Riddle staring at him. Why does he always have to stare? What’s his deal? Harry scowls and turns to look at Orion instead. The other boy is laughing with Lestrange about something or other, looking happy and carefree.

Harry thinks that it’s bizarre - how Riddle already appears creepy and murderous, and his companions still seem so normal. Nice, even. But no matter how kind they appear to be, Harry needs to remember that they already are Riddle’s followers. In twenty years, they will be the first ones to put on bone-white masks and black robes, bear ink-black tattoos on their left forearms, and call themselves Death Eaters. They will be the ones to help Voldemort start a war that will consume the wizarding Britain in its entirety. They will torture, maim and murder in some misguided attempt to “purge the world of the filth”. They’re nice now, but not for long.

* * *

_Harry is standing in a long corridor._

_It's dark and grim. The walls are grey and there are doors on both of them. They look shabby. Harry doesn’t know how many of them there are, as he can’t see past five feet. Anything past that is shrouded in darkness. The shadows that cover the corridor look unnaturally dark and thick, almost as if they were made of liquid darkness.  
_

_There’s something in the air here. It feels like something terrible is going to happen. It feels like the air outside just before the storm - full of ominous anticipation._

_The combination of the miserable decor and the eerie atmosphere makes this place feel like it has been taken straight out of a horror movie. The only thing the scene is lacking is a possessed doll. Or two._

_It's quiet here._

_As soon as he makes that observation, someone starts crying. The person’s sobs are loud and uncontrollable, full of despair. The sound fits in with the nightmaresque scenery just as good as any possessed doll would._

_He starts walking towards the sound, passing six doors, before he finally makes his way to the one from behind which the sound is coming. He opens it, hesitantly._

_The room he finds himself in is just as depressing as the corridor. The walls are just as grey and glum, lacking any sort of decoration. The only pieces of furniture here are a bed and a wardrobe. On the wall opposite the door is one window. The sparse decor reminds Harry of hospital rooms.  
_

_It seems to be early evening. The light from the outside is the only source of light in the room. It makes everything appear grey and gloomy. Then again, Harry doesn't think the room looks colorful and happy in the light of day either.  
_

_Harry almost expects it to rain. It would fit this strange and sad place._

_But it doesn't._

_The sky is dark and the clouds are heavy, but it doesn't rain. There is no rhythmic beat of raindrops against the windowsill. The room is filled solely with the despairing whines that come from a boy curled up on the bed._

_He looks scrawny and underfed, his ribs visible through the thin material of his shirt._

_His chest is rising and falling in time with his heavy sobs._

_Harry wants to comfort the boy but there’s something stopping him from reaching out to him. He doesn’t know what it is but he knows that it prohibits him from getting closer to the child, almost as if there was a wall between the two of them._

_With no other choice, he lets the boy cry._

_He stands here, watching. And while he's watching, the evening turns into the night. The moon fills the room with soft light, even though it is partially covered with clouds. The shadows look even darker now, contrasting the silver moonlight the illuminates a part of the room. They look alive. They look animate, twisting and turning, waiting for the right moment to consume every bit of light in the world._

_Harry stands motionlessly, waiting. He pays no mind to the shadows. Just like he knows he can't touch the boy, he knows that the shadows can't hurt him. Not yet.  
_

_And then the boy stops crying._

_He sits up, wiping his teary face with his sleeve. His eyes are red and puffy. When he notices Harry they widen almost comically. He immediately presses his back to the wall and curls up even more, looking frightened._

_“Are you one of them?” he asks, his voice trembling. “Did_ she _send you?”_

 _Harry doesn’t know how to answer that question. He doesn’t know whether he is one of_ them, _whoever they are. Maybe_ _she_ did _send him. He can’t remember how he got here._ _Now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t even know where “here”_ _is._

 _"Why are you here?" the boy asks and what a good question it is. Why_ _is Harry here, wherever “here” is?_

_He doesn't know._

_He doesn't remember._

_All he can remember is the dark corridor, lined with shabby doors._

_But for some reason, he is not concerned about his lack of knowledge. For some reason, he doesn’t care. Maybe it's the same force that prohibits him from reaching out to the boy that makes him remain calm despite the unsetteling scene. Maybe it's something else. Once again, he doesn't know.  
_

_"You shouldn't be here” the boy says weakly, breaking Harry out of his reverie. “You should leave.”_

_Something about the boy’s voice indicates that it’s not a request, but a command. Harry has never been the one to follow orders but this one time, he obeys. Because it’s not just the boy that tells him to leave. Everything in this strange landscape wants him to leave and never come back. He isn’t welcome here. He doesn’t belong here. The same force that kept him from touching the boy now dictates him to leave.  
_

_He has no other choice but to obey._

_He turns around and grasps the doorknob._

And that’s when he wakes up.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third chapter this week because I'm on fire baby!

Even after a week, Harry can still feel the effects of the strange dream. 

He is not a stranger to nightmares. He is, in fact, well acquainted with all sorts of night terrors. He often dreams of the horrors he experienced and of those that he is yet to face. He dreams of Voldemort’s resurrection, Cedric falling lifelessly to the ground, and of his friends’ inanimate bodies covered with blood. All of those dreams are nightmares. And all of them are terrifying.

But this dream was the most unsettling thing he has ever experienced. Even thinking about it unnerves him. It wasn’t just any nightmare, it was something _more._ It left Harry with an overwhelming sense of dread, that stayed with him all throughout the week. Day after day, he continued to feel intrusive, like he has taken the feeling from the bizarre dreamscape and into the waking world.

Right now, he’s sitting in the library. He came here to get some peace and quiet, as he truly needs those things. Quiet is not really a problem. There’s plenty of quiet places in the castle, including his dorm and the common room. But both his dorm and the common room, apart from silence, offer the presence of Tom Riddle.

Harry knows he’s acting incredibly childish by avoiding the other boy at all times but he can’t stand to be near him right now. The dream was disturbing enough, he doesn’t need Riddle’s piercing stare to disrupt him further.

He knows that Riddle doesn’t frequent the library on Friday afternoons, instead opting to stay in the Slytherin common room. He does spend a ridiculous amount of time in the library but for some reason, never on Fridays. (How he knows that fact is nobody's business but his.) So, he came here to think, without Riddle invading his thoughts. 

Of course, it didn’t work. Because the other boy is the only thing Harry can think about, most of the time. His continuous existence is enough to make Harry worried for his well-being. And, well, everyone else's.

He still doesn’t know what to do about the Chamber of Secrets problem. Everything he can think of is stupid and useless. He should just let it go, like Hermione would advise him to do. But he can’t. Every time he sees Myrtle, he thinks about her ghost, haunting the school and harassing students in the prefect bathroom. He should save her, if not for her then for all of the students that she will traumatise in the future.

He knows that Riddle is still looking for the Chamber. Because, firstly, he’s outside the Slytherin quarters too much for it to mean anything good, and, secondly, nobody has been petrified yet.

Harry groans.

Why does his entire life revolve around Riddle?

Every time something happens, it’s somehow connected to Voldemort. Even now, when he should be enjoying himself as a man free of all the responsibilities of the future, he can’t. Because Tom fucking Riddle wants to play with a giant snake.

Harry briefly entertains the thought of killing the boy. It would make the world a better place, wouldn’t it? He could save Myrtle, Cedric, his parents, and countless more. He already wants to change the flow of time by saving Myrtle, why not save his parents too? Why not get rid of the person who caused every single one of his problems? One single spell, one wave of his wand and he could have a chance at a normal life.

But he's not a murderer. He doesn't have the guts to murder Riddle, even knowing what the other boy will become. 

He wonders whether the inability to kill _Lord Voldemort,_ of all people, makes him weak. The dark lord is evil and vile but Harry doesn’t want to kill him. What does that make him? A traitor?

His musing is interrupted by Claire sitting down on the chair across from him.

“Are you going to the dinner tonight?” she asks, bypassing the customary greetings.

“What dinner?” he asks.

“The Slug Club dinner, of course!” she says. “You were invited, right?”

“Oh, that” he sighs. “I don’t think so.”

“Why?” she asks, surprise written on her face. He can understand her. From what he’s heard, only a select few students are invited to Slughorn’s dinners and to be amongst them is a “privilege”.

“I don't want to listen to a bunch of stuck-up teenagers discuss politics” which is true. That Riddle’s going to be there is definitely not the most important of his reasons. Nope. It’s just a bonus that makes that stupid dinner even less appealing.

"We don't always talk about politics” she says. “We also talk about other things. Like education.”

Harry snorts. He’s already fed up with _education._ He has no idea how Hermione remains sane, even with the amount of studying she does.

“It’s a great opportunity to make connections” Claire adds.

"I don't want to _make connections_ " and he really doesn't. And not only because he doesn't want to be in Riddle's vicinity more than absolutely necessary. He just doesn't plan to stay in this time long enough for any sort of connections to matter. He knows there's a possibility that he will have to stay here forever but he refuses to acknowledge it. And making _connections_ defeats that purpose. Because to _make connections_ he would have to, at least partially, accept the fact that this is his life now. And he categorically refuses to do that.

"You're a shitty Slytherin, you know that?” she asks. “You should network and climb the social ladder and whatnot. But you _don't want to._ How you convinced the hat to put you in that house is beyond me."

"I didn't convince it to do anything. It just said that I'd look amazing in green."

Claire hides her face in her hands.

"I don't know why I put up with you" she groans. "You're such an idiot."

Harry makes no move to hide his grin.

Over the past couple of days, he and Claire have gotten closer. Harry doesn’t know if he can call her his _friend_ just yet but they are on their way to becoming just that. Friends. Just like him and Ron, and Hermione. It’s bizarre to think that he’s found another close friend even though he didn’t really want to. A voice in his head says that he’d rather be more than just friends with her but he doesn’t listen to it. Friends is good. He can do friends.

“You have to go” the girl says. “You can’t leave me alone with the _stuck-up teenagers,_ as you so aptly put it.”

"Then don't go" he says. "We can go flying, instead. Or study. Or do literally anything else."

"I have to go because, unlike you, I actually care about my future” she says. “And these stupid meetings are a great way to meet influential people and I need to do that if I want to get anywhere in life. I understand that you don't need that, since you are from a prominent pureblood family, but I'm not. My name doesn't carry nearly as much weight as yours. My mother is good at warding but it won’t help me in the future, unless I want to become a rune mistress. And I don’t. So I need to go to these meetings and suffer the company of snooty idiots. You could at least keep me company. If not for yourself then for me."

Claire is a better Slytherin than he will ever be. He _knows_ that he's being manipulated right now but he can't find a way to get out of going to that bloody dinner. Not unless he wants to look like a snobbish pureblood who would rather use his name than work for anything on his own. Not unless he wants to look like an unsupportive friend, who would rather go flying than help his friends. 

He sighs.

"I hate you, Claire."

She smiles.

* * *

  
  


"My, my, cousin, you clean nicely" he hears Orion say and, really, never before has Harry wanted to stab someone so badly.

He feels ridiculous. He's dressed in green formal robes made of something that is probably silk, and he looks like he could be Draco Malfoy's best friend. Yes, it's _that bad._

"Shut up” he groans. He really hates Melania for buying him those robes.

"Someone can't take a compliment" Orion narrows his eyes but the effect is ruined by the small smile that graces his lips.

"I don't even know why I'm going to that blasted dinner. It's not like I need to be any more popular."

And it's true. He thought that the novelty of a transfer student would wear off after a month of classes but no - he still is the talk of the school, for some reason. It's not like there's anything exceptional about him. He can understand why Riddle is so popular amongst students and teachers alike - he's powerful, smart, and handsome, and nobody knows that he's a murderous psychopath. But Harry is neither powerful nor smart nor handsome, no matter what Claire says about that. He's not a psychopath, either, but he doesn't think that the fact that he can feel remorse for his actions is enough to make him so popular.

"It's not about popularity, it's about connections" says Orion.

Harry truly _hates_ the word "connections" by now. Everybody wants him to make connections. Claire, Orion, even Dorea. All of them urge him to network, preaching the importance of knowing the right people. It's exhausting. And pointless. After all, he doesn't plan to stay in the past that long.

Orion must've noticed his annoyed expression because he speaks up again. "You can't possibly expect to get anywhere in life by _looking pretty._ Unless, of course, you wish to become a housewife."

"I do not look pretty!" Harry splutters indignantly.

"Yes you do!" yells out Avery from the bathroom. Harry had no idea the other boy was listening in.

"I hate all of you" he says, even though he doesn't mean it. His roommates are actually pretty decent and he doesn't hate them. No, he _likes them._

If somebody had told him, two months ago, that he would be friends with a bunch of Slytherins, he would've laughed in their face for a good couple of minutes.

"You're a crappy Slytherin, you know that?" it's the second time he's been told that today. He probably _is_ a crappy Slytherin. Most likely because he spent four years as a Gryffindor. "Come on, we need to leave, or else we'll be late."

Harry sighs and, after taking one last look at himself in the mirror, he follows Orion out of the dorm to the common room, where Dorea is waiting for them.

“You look nice, Harry” she says. “If only something could be done about this atrocious hair…”

He really doesn’t appreciate her calling his hair _atrocious_. “It’s not that bad” he says.

She gives him an unimpressed look. “In that case, I think you need new glasses. It looks as if someone has let a horde of hippogriffs play with it."

“Can we stop talking about his hair and leave?” asks Orion, and for once Harry finds himself agreeing with the other boy. “I don’t want to be late.”

“Oh, don’t worry, we’re already late” says Dorea but she still grabs Harry’s arm and leads him out of the common room.

Harry expects her to go in the direction of Slughorn’s classroom but instead, they go deeper into the dungeons. He had no idea that there was something there, besides empty classrooms and storage rooms.

He knows they’re going the right way when he begins to hear music. It gets louder the further into the dungeon they go. It sounds like someone playing jazz on the piano. It’s exactly the kind of music one would expect from a fancy dinner party in 1943.

Then, he sees Claire. She’s leaning against the wall next to a widely open door. She’s dressed in a mint green dress and her hair is set in a low bun. 

"I was beginning to get worried you wouldn't come!" she says as soon as she notices them. Then he looks at his companions. “Heir Black. _Dorea._ ”

Harry frowns. There was something off-putting about the way she said Dorea’s name. He wonders whether the two of them dislike each other.

“ _Claire_ ” Dorea says. Her voice is overly pleasant and sugary. He looks at Orion questioningly but the boy only shakes his head as if to say _don’t ask._

The girls stare at each other long enough to make Harry feel uncomfortable. 

“Shall we go in?” asks Orion, obviously sharing Harry’s discomfort.

The room they enter is not the kind of room one expects to find in a dungeon. Harry doesn’t know why this surprises him so much, as the Slytherin common room does not look like a cold and empty room either. Still, he didn’t expect the place to be this cosy. The colour scheme is a mix of all types of browns, which makes it appear warm and inviting. There is a large table in the middle of the room, with enough space to seat twelve people. Everyone is already there, so only four chairs remain empty.

“Ah, we were wondering when you’d join us” says Slughorn, the rosy tint to his cheeks making him appear drunk. From what Harry has learned about him in the past month, the man probably _has_ been drinking. “Sit down, sit down, and let us begin!”

Harry sits down as far away from Riddle as he can. It’s not that hard, since the boy is sitting at the professor’s right hand (naturally) and the only available chairs are opposite Slughorn. To Harry’s right sits Abraxas Malfoy and to his left sits Claire. Dorea sits down as far away from the other girl as she can, and Harry wonders once again what the deal is with the two of them. 

“For the entree, we have cantaloupe bruschettas with goat's cheese and prosciutto. The cantaloupe has been imported from India...”

And so it begins.

Harry has never eaten food this fancy in his entire life. He doesn’t even think that _the Dursleys_ eat things like that. He can’t understand the dishes’ names, it’s so fancy. But the fact that he doesn’t exactly know what he’s eating doesn’t make the food any less delicious.

While the quality of the food comes as a pleasant surprise, the conversation is just as uninteresting as Harry expected it to be. They talk mostly about politics, various legislations and decrees. When they don’t talk about politics, Slughorn is fawning over Tom Riddle. Harry feels the urge to vomit up all the delicious food he’s just eaten because Merlin is it disgusting. Tom this, Tom that, _you could be the Minister by the age of thirty, Tom._ Even Riddle looks like he’s fighting the urge to throttle the potions professor. His expression is surprising, as Harry thought Riddle would enjoy having his ego stroked. But he doesn’t. No, he looks positively murderous, even though his lips are stretched in a smile. Harry hates the fact that he sympathises with Riddle but he truly does. Slughorn is irritating. Everyone else doesn’t seem to be surprised by what’s going on, making Harry realise that it’s a regular occurrence.

Finally, the party is over. 

Harry gets out of the room as soon as he can, without coming off as rude. He didn’t even notice when the browns of the room stopped feeling cosy and started feeling suffocating but he is glad when he is finally able to leave.

“Is it always like this?” he asks, not posing the question to anybody in particular.

“You mean Slughorn talking about Riddle all the time? Yes, every fucking time” says a boy that Harry recognises as a seventh year Slytherin.

“Where _is_ Riddle?” asks Claire. “Did he _stay there?_ Is he a masochist?”

“Apparently” shrugs Dorea.

“He wanted to ask Slughorn about something” says Orion. “I think he wanted to leave just as much as any of us, but he said that it was important.”

Harry wonders what could be important enough for Riddle to subject himself to this kind of torture. Probably not anything good.

“I’m not going with you again” he warns Claire. “It was awful.”

“The food is good” she says. “You just need to tune Slughorn out and you can enjoy yourself.”

“The food is not good enough to suffer through this again, and Slughorn is impossible to tune out” he says.

“But think about all the _connections_ you can make” says Claire with a smile, knowing full well how that word irks him.

“Please stop” he groans.


	10. Chapter 10

Dumbledore sighs wearily. 

He has been looking for Harry for over a month but to no avail. The boy just disappeared from Grimmauld Place on the 13th of August, and nobody has heard from him since then.

He looks at one of the devices decorating his office and finds its pendulum still moving, just like it has since the Halloween night of 1981. That means that the boy is still alive, wherever he is. It's the only one of the instruments that he uses to monitor Harry that is still active. The rest stopped working in August. All of the tracking spells that he had placed on the boy turned out to be useless. Not one of them could point him in the boy’s direction. He was so desperate that he even went as far as to use blood magic to locate Harry, but it didn’t work. The boy must be behind incredibly powerful wards to stop such magicks from functioning.

The sudden deactivation of all the devices is what first clued Albus that something has happened. He immediately took the floo to Grimmauld Place, where his suspicions were confirmed.

At first, he thought that it was Tom who kidnapped the boy but Severus assured him that none of the Death Eaters know of Harry’s whereabouts. He still can’t dismiss that idea, though. It is entirely possible that Tom found out what the boy is and decided to lock him away in some fortress far, far away from anyone’s reach. It is also possible, however unlikely, that he chose not to inform his followers of that fact. Albus dreads to even think about it, as Harry would undoubtedly suffer unimaginable nightmares in Tom’s custody. And it would destroy all of his carefully drafted plans for the future. For the first to weeks of Harry's absence, Albus hoped that the boy had simply run away, and would return to school on the first of September. Unfortunately, he was wrong. Harry never showed up at King’s Cross station.

Still, Albus was prepared for that possibility and instructed Severus to inform Tom that Harry is going to be homeschooled for the rest of his education, in order to prepare him to beat the Dark Lord. He can’t risk making Tom think that he’s won. Yes, there is a possibility that Tom already has Harry in his grasp and thus is already aware of his victory but that’s not all there is to it. No, even more importantly, he can’t risk the Order losing hope. He can’t let them think that the boy-who-lived, the prophecy child and the saviour of the wizarding world, is not amongst them anymore.

So, he fed the Order the same lie he fed to Tom. All of them think that Harry is training, working hard to rid the wizarding world of Voldemort, this time for good. It took some effort, as he had to modify the memories of those who had seen Harry disappear directly from the Grimmauld Place sitting room but after that, they accepted the lie easily. The only one who had some reservations about the “plan” was Sirius, who insisted on seeing his godson at least from time to time. Still, Dumbledore was able to convince him that it’s all for Harry’s safety. That was enough for Sirius to, however begrudgingly, accept that he's not going to see Harry for an unspecified amount of time. Both of the boy’s friends believed him immediately. Miss Granger was disappointed that it was Harry, not her, who would be receiving extra education, and Mr. Weasley was jealous that Harry would not have to go to school, but they didn't doubt him in the least. Oh, the trusting nature of the youth.

Now, sitting in his office, Albus has no idea what to do. 

It's great that he managed to stop the news of Harry's disappearance from spreading and causing panic but that doesn't change the fact that the boy is not here. And by _here_ Albus means the entire world, apparently.

He _has_ to find the boy. Harry is the one prophesied to vanquish the dark lord, the only one who can kill him. And, as long as the boy is alive, Tom cannot die. As long as Harry holds a piece of Voldemort's soul, the man cannot be killed.

So, Albus _needs_ to find the boy, more than he needs anything else.

But he has no idea how. He exhausted all possible resources. He used every possible type of magic but none of them yielded any results. He even asked the boy’s owl to find him but she could not. Neither could Dobby. It’s like the boy has vanished but Albus doesn't know _how_. The boy can't apparate yet, and even if he could, he would not be able to get past the headquarters' wards. Portkeys should not work, either. It just doesn't make any sense.

* * *

Harry stops in his tracks as soon as he enters Hogsmeade. It looks exactly as he remembers it. The shopfronts and the cottages are identical to those that reside in Harry’s memory. He can see The Three Broomsticks, Zonko’s, and Honeydukes, and he recognises them immediately. Hogsmeade seems to exist out of time, remaining the same throughout decades. As he looks over the picturesque little village, he is overwhelmed with _so many_ good memories. He smiles as he remembers sneaking out of Hogwarts to the Honeydukes cellar in his third year, hiding under his invisibility cloak, hanging out with his friends, and throwing snowballs at Draco Malfoy. He really ought to do it again sometime. Throw snowballs at Draco Malfoy, that is. It was fun.

Memories of his past (or is it his future?) don’t bring him as much pain as they once had. He still misses his life and his friends, he always will, but it’s not as painful as it used to be. Maybe it’s because he now has some semblance of a life here. He made new friends and settled into new routines. He wonders whether it makes him a horrible person - replacing Ron and Hermione with Claire, Dorea, and Orion. He wonders whether he’s betraying them. It’s not like he has forgotten about them, he’s just come to terms with the fact that they’re not with him right now.

“Are you quite done admiring the scenery?” asks Orion, breaking him out of his pensive state.

“Sorry” says Harry. “But in my defence - the village looks so quaint and pretty, it would be a crime not to admire it.”

“Right, I forgot you’ve never been here before” sighs Orioion, visibly annoyed. Herry is not sure why the other boy is so irritated. Most likely because he’s angry with Harry’s squib aunt for never bringing him here. Harry thinks about aunt Petunia walking around Hogsmeade and smiles. She’d probably suffer ten heart attacks in her first three minutes in the wizarding village. “Shall we go and enter the _quaint and pretty_ village?”

“You go on without me” says Harry. He really enjoys Orion’s company but he wants to be left alone, even if only for a while. “I’ll meet you in the Three Broomsticks in two hours.”

Orion regards him contemplatively for a moment. “Don’t get lost, cousin” he finally warns and starts walking towards Hogsmeade.

And then Harry is alone.

He takes a deep breath in, closing his eyes. Even the smell of the village is identical to the one from 1995. He can smell apple cider, hops, freshly cut trees, pumpkins, and caramel, a unique blend of autumn smells that is distinctively _Hogsmeade._ It’s wonderful - how the world around Hogwarts changes, but both the castle and the village remain the same. 

He enters it, his feet carrying him to _Honeydukes._ The closer to the shop he gets, the more prevalent the smell of popcorn and sugar becomes, slowly overshadowing every other scent. 

He goes into the shop and is immediately hit with loud chatter and laughs of the students inside of it. He browses the shelves, not looking for anything in particular. The Blacks have given him quite a lot of money, so he could buy anything that catches his fancy but he doesn’t want to. He wants to bask in the atmosphere of the place, undisturbed, letting the memories of his life come and go. That’s precisely the reason he sent Orion away. He wants to remember everything and to do that, he needs peace and quiet. Well, as much peace and quiet as one can get in a shop filled to the brim with screaming children.

He repeats the same routine in _Zonko’s._

After he exits the shop he heads in the direction of _Tomes and Scrolls._ He never visited the shop before, as only Hermione has been even remotely interested in books, but he needs another book on mind magic. Occlumency is awfully hard but Claire suggested that it might be easier for him to master it once he knows how to use legilimency. He’s not really sure whether it’s true but it’s worth a try. He really can’t risk anyone finding out about the events that are yet to come. Especially Riddle. Harry dreads to even think about what the other boy would’ve done with the knowledge of his future.

The shop is small and completely filled with books. They occupy every available surface, including the floor, leaving only enough space for people to walk through. Harry looks around for a while before he spots a section labeled _Mind Magic._ He heads over to the bookcase and browses the titles. Most of the books here he's already read (and that's the first time he's able to say this sentence without being called a fat liar), either in the Black library or in Hogwarts.

He's still not quite over the fact that he's read so many books in such a short period of time. _  
_

Again, Hermione would be proud. Ron would feel betrayed.

Around twenty minutes later, he exits the shop with two enormous (and ridiculously expensive) tomes on legilimency. The clerk was kind enough to shrink the books for him, as Harry would not be able to carry them around Hogsmeade for an entire day.

It’s nearing the time Harry is supposed to meet Orion in the Three Broomsticks, so he starts heading in the pub’s direction. He passes other students wandering around the village but he pays no attention to any of them. Well, not until he sees a head full of blonde hair that looks suspiciously like Lucretia’s golden locks. He frowns. She’s a second year, she’s not supposed to be in Hogsmeade. Unless the age limit is lower in the past but he doesn't think it is. He follows the girl for a while, until he’s able to catch her in one of the less-populated alleys.

“What are you doing here, Cretia?” he asks.

“What are _you_ doing here?” she counters and Harry rolls his eyes.

“You’re not supposed to be here, Cretia” he says. “How did you get out of the castle?”

“ _You’re_ not supposed to be here” she says stubbornly.

Harry sighs. “Are you just going to parrot everything I say?”

“I’m not parroting you, I’m just stating facts” she says with a small shrug. "You shouldn't be here."

Harry frowns. “Well, unlike you, I’m in my fifth year, so I have the right to go to Hogsmeade, should I like to do so” he says. “You’re only a second year. So, let me ask you again. How did you get out of the castle?

“I used the secret passage leading to Honeydukes, you know the one” she answers to Harry’s astonishment. He didn’t expect to get a straight answer out of her. He's not sure how she knows about the passage, though. She couldn't have found it on her own, not after only a year in the castle.

“Use the passage to come back to the castle, then” he says. “You’ll get in trouble if a teacher sees you.”

“I’ll be fine” she assures him. Somehow it doesn’t make him feel better. “It’s not the first time I’ve been here.”

“You snuck out to Hogsmeade in your _first year?!”_ really, Harry has no right to be this shocked. He battled a troll and turned his teacher into ash as a first year. Sneaking out of the castle is not nearly as dangerous as either of those things.

“No, you dummy, my parents took me here when I was younger” she answers with a roll of her eyes.

“Oh” he says. It makes perfect sense but for some reason, he doesn’t believe her. She looks too calm for a child that is sneaking out of Hogwarts for the first time ever. When he snuck out, he was constantly worried that he's going to be discovered, even under his cloak. And she's just prancing around the village without a care in the world. It's a very Gryffindor thing to do, and Harry wonders how the girl found herself in the house of snakes. A true Slytherin would at least _try_ to remain unseen.

“You’re running out of time” she says, suddenly.

“What?” asks Harry, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Aren’t you supposed to meet my brother in the Three Broomsticks?” she asks. “You’re already late.”

“How do you…” he begins.

“Bye!” she interrupts him and runs off towards the main street. Harry knows he has no chance of finding her again, no unless she wants to be found. And Harry doesn’t think she does.

He sighs and shakes his head. Lucretia is a bizarre child.

Still, she is right about one thing - he is running late.

When he finally enters the Three Broomsticks, fifteen minutes after he was supposed to be here, he’s instantly hit with the familiar scent of the pub. It smells like butterbeer and people. _People_ is a weird way to describe a smell but it’s true. A large group of people always smells in a particular way that can’t be described by any other word. _Sweaty_ doesn’t always fit and describing every individual person's perfume is too much of a bother. And impossible, most of the time. Thus - _people._

He looks around until he spots Orion and his friends sitting in a more secluded area of the pub.

“Thank you for gracing us with your presence, oh great Harrison Black” says Avery in a sing-song voice, as soon as he sees Harry. “I’m sure your schedule is entirely filled with meetings with your lovely fans, so we’re grateful that you made time for us, peasants.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Very funny, Avery. I simply got lost.”

“It’s funny because it’s true” says Lestrange with a grin.

“You _do_ prefer to be alone rather than spend time in the company of us, lowly fellows" says Orion. "Actually, you're just like Riddle in that regard. You should become friends."

Harry bursts with laughter. Him and Riddle _friends?_ It’s just as likely as Dumbledore befriending Grindelwald.

“I don’t think that it’s a good idea” he says after he finally calms down.

“I think that it’s a great idea” says Rosier. “You’d both just sit and read books. You wouldn’t even need to talk to each other.”

“Yes, I think that that’s what Riddle looks for in friends” says Avery. “The ability to sit quietly for long periods of time without disturbing him.”

Orion hums. “He's a tad antisocial and gets annoyed pretty quickly but he's a great wizard, so we have no choice but to forgive him for his behaviour. I know we make fun of his sometimes but we still admire him. I don’t want to sound like Slughorn, but he really _could_ be the Minister by thirty.”

“He’s nothing special” says Harry, which earns him astonished looks from the boys around him.

“Nothing special?” asks Rosier. “He’s a bit rough around the edges but he makes up for it with his power and intelligence. I don’t think you realise that Slughorn’s fawning is not without reason. Riddle is… there’s no way to describe him, really.”

“He’s a force of nature” says Nott, quietly. “He’s the thunderstorm and the hurricane. He’s the sun, blinding in its brilliance. He could change the world, should he wish to do so. But I don’t think any of us are prepared for the world to be reshaped to fit his vision.”

That’s the first time any of the boys have made it clear where their loyalties lie. They obviously admire him, the admiration reaching far beyond Riddle’s academic success. They sound… well, they sound like Harry imagines Death Eaters to sound. Except there’s no fear in their voices. There’s no trace of fright that Harry heard from the Death Eaters kneeling at Voldemort’s feet, that day in the graveyard. There’s only faith and admiration.

Harry takes a sip of his butterbeer and looks away from the boys at his table. Usually, it’s hard for him to remember who the boys will become but no right now. No, right now it’s all too easy to see how those boys became the elite of Voldemort’s followers, how they stood by the dark lord's side while he set the world on fire.

He looks at the faces of the teenagers sitting in the pub. None of them know what’s coming. They have no idea that just two decades from now, one of their classmates will begin a war that will result in hundreds of casualties. 

From where he's sitting he can see Hagrid, laughing carelessly with his friends. He considered talking to him, a while ago, when he first saw him sitting at the Gryffindor table, but he doesn’t want to have his heart broken again. Dumbledore doesn’t like him and Harry doesn’t know what he’d do if Hagrid didn’t like him either. That’s the sad thing about living in the past - he gets to see people he knows behave differently. Both Dumbledore and Hagrid are not the men Harry knows, not yet. Dumbledore has not yet defeated Grindelwald and has not yet seen one of his students become a murderer. Hagrid has not yet been expelled and has not yet fought in a war. They both look achingly familiar but, at the same time, they’re complete strangers. 

_Just like Riddle,_ Harry thinks.

And it’s true. No matter how much Harry dislikes the other boy, Tom Marvolo Riddle is not Lord Voldemort yet. He inspires admiration, not fear. He uses intelligence, not force, to achieve his goals. They share the letters in their names, they share ideologies and they share some of their worst traits but that’s where the similarities end. They’re the same person but they’re so, so different. They're both equally horrible but _different._

And it scares the shit out of him.

It also makes him wonder _what changed._ What made Voldemort change from a wizard worthy of admiration into a fearsome monster. How did he lose himself so completely, how did he lose his intelligence and cunning, transforming into a madman, whose only purpose in life is to murder a teenager.

How did Riddle stop being _Riddle,_ and became _Lord Voldemort?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooooo...  
> Who's gonna tell Harry that Dumbledore and Grindelwald used to be lovers?


	11. Chapter 11

Harry is sitting outside with Claire, enjoying the autumn weather. Even though it is already almost November, the air is still warm. The sky is blue and cloudless and the sun is shining brightly, bathing the entire world in a soft, glittery shimmer. The grass is golden, so unlike the vivid green it is during the summer and the trees in the Forbidden Forest have already lost most of their leaves, covering the ground in a kaleidoscope of yellows and oranges. The pumpkin patch near the groundskeeper’s hut is full of ripe pumpkins, waiting to be harvested and put up as Halloween decoration. It is a beautiful picture, looking as if it was taken straight out of a painting. The only thing that assures Harry that he is not sitting in front of an artwork is the keen, but not unpleasant, wind.

He wonders whether there are weather wards surrounding the castle grounds. He’s quite certain that late October in Scotland can’t be so pleasant without the help of magic.

“Will you be performing the Samhain ritual tomorrow?” Claire asks out of the blue. She’s sitting next to him, her long hair fluttering in the wind. She looks like a crystal statue with the gold of sunlight illuminating her face, making her skin glow like tourmaline. She truly is the most beautiful girl Harry has ever met.

“Why do you ask?” he asks, tearing his eyes away from her face. He sees no reason to do something like this. He's read about pagan celebrations under Arcturus' tutelage, as the man had insisted that it's a huge part of the wizarding world, so he knows what they look like. Allegedly, they are supposed to bring closure and connect the participant to those that had passed away but to him, they seem like dark magic, dangerous and forbidden. They seem like something Death Eaters do in overgrown graveyards, under the cover of the night. 

“I’m just curious” Claire says with a little shrug.

He considers her for a while. “I don’t think I will” he eventually says. “I know I’m a Slytherin but I’ve never done anything that’s even remotely dark.”

“But it’s not dark magic” Claire says, her dark brown and very piercing eyes fixed on his face. “Sure, there are darker variations of the rituals but generally, the magic invoked by the ritual is neutral. My family is and always has been light and we still celebrate Samhain. The rituals are a way for us to honour those that have passed away, reach out to them, and get closure. And even for those who have not lost anyone important, it is a way to celebrate death and magic itself. It is unlike anything you have ever felt before, I promise you.”

She does make it sound tempting. Then again, Claire could make anything sound tempting. An image of her going door to door selling muggle products flashes in his mind and he smiles. She would make an excellent saleswoman. Maybe she would even be able to get aunt Petunia to buy one of those ridiculously expensive blenders. Still, however compelling Claire’s argument is, the rituals are illegal for a reason.

“You should try it” Claire says, obviously noticing his indecision. “If you don’t like it, you don’t have to do it again.”

“But it’s illegal” he says. He knows it’s not the best of reasons but it’s true. Even though the Ministry is not the most reliable of institutions, they surely didn’t forbid pagan celebrations for no reason at all, right?

Claire gives him her best unimpressed glare. “That’s your reason? You’re worried about breaking the law?”

“Yes?” he says weakly. He's not really bothered by the legality of it but by the reason for _why_ they're illegal. He's scared. Before traveling into the past, he's never even heard of people celebrating Samhain. Nobody mentioned it - not Ron, who's a pureblood, and thus must be in some way aware of it, and not Hermione, who spends her days buried in books. Does it mean it _is_ dark and dangerous? If it wasn't, he surely would've heard about it, right? Or is it just one of those things that changed in the future? Still, he doesn’t think that religious practices are something that just go out of fashion.

“Ask me why that law is a bunch of crap after you do the ritual. You won't be able to understand, otherwise” the girl says. “For now, just enjoy being rebellious and defying the authorities.”

He snorts. She's so obviously trying to appeal to his Gryffindor side by mentioning _being rebellious._

Still, he knows that Claire is right. Because, apart from the fact that she's right most of the time, Ministry is, as he mentioned before, not the most reliable of institutions. Yes, they must've had a reason to classify ritual magic as dark, but it might not have been a good and sensible reason. He remembers how insistent Fudge was on denying Voldemort's return, how he dragged his and Dumbledore's names through the dirt just to avoid acknowledging the truth, just to avoid dealing with the consequences of said truth. Yes, it happened fifty years in the future but Harry suspects that bureaucracy and corruption are not modern inventions. Just because the Ministry claims something is dark doesn't mean it's the truth.

But the possibility that they're right is enough to make Harry terrified. He doesn’t want to defile his parents’ memory by performing the same magic that murdered them. And if there's a chance that by participating in the ritual he will do just that, he doesn't want to risk it. 

"You have to trust me, Harry" says Claire gently. "It's not evil or vile. And even if it was, I doubt that doing it once is going to taint your magic in any way."

She's right. Everything she says makes perfect sense. Harry should not be as hesitant as he is. It's just one time. If he doesn't like it, he doesn't have to do it again.

He knows he should try. He doesn't know why he had no idea about what Samhain is, even after the four years he spent in the wizarding world, but it doesn't have to mean anything. Maybe it only is a testament to how ignorant he used to be. To how little he knew about the world he called his home.

“I don’t even know how to do the ritual” he admits. "I read a few books about ritual magic but every single one of them gives different instructions."

“Ask your cousin if you can join him and his friends" she says. "There are some rituals that can be performed alone, but since it’s your first time you should join someone. Besides, it’s always more powerful when done with others. I’d invite you to do it with me but we all do it together in Ravenclaw, those of us that celebrate Samhain. I don’t think they’d appreciate a stranger joining us.”

Yes, asking a Death Eater to perform an illegal ritual with him and other Death Eaters is definitely a great idea. He wonders whether black robes and snake tattoos are required to participate. Should he try to transfigure his glasses into a mask? What’s next? Taking the dark mark? Befriending the dark lord? 

Still, Samhain is supposed to bring you closure. It's what both Arcturus and Claire had said. Does Harry trust them? Maybe not Arcturus, but he _does_ trust Claire.

He thinks about Cedric, about his kind smile and the green light that ensured that he will never smile again. He thinks about the ghostly figures of his parents, that day in the graveyard. He needs closure, he needs a way to know that it’s all fine.

But he might not get that. How can the ritual offer him any closure, when the ones he’s grieving for have not yet been born? How can he come to terms with his losses when they have not yet been lost?

But Claire said that people who have not lost anyone also partake in the rituals. And they also receive something out of it.

Besides, it's something new and exciting. _Where the hell did my Gryffindor side go?_ he wonders. He's supposed to be brave and adventurous. Why isn't he?

“I think I’ll do it” he says and Claire beams brightly at him. 

* * *

  
  


It's Samhain today.

On this day, in thirty-eight years, Voldemort is going to attack him and his parents in their home in Godrick's Hollow.

He wonders whether the man chose to attack them on that particular day on purpose. After all, on Samhain, the veil between the world of the living and the realm of the dead is the thinnest out of all the days in the year. Maybe the Dark Lord hoped this fact would help him in his quest to murder an infant and his parents. Or maybe he simply enjoyed the dramatic symbolism of it.

He still can’t believe he’s going to perform a ritual with young Death Eaters and teenage Lord Voldemort. But it’s not like he has another choice. If he wants to do it (and he does, despite his initial uncertainty) he has to forget about who they will be and focus on who they are right now - teenagers, not innocent anymore but with their hands not yet covered with blood.

He has to remember what he realised a couple of weeks ago, sitting in the Three Broomsticks - Tom Riddle is not Lord Voldemort. Not yet. He's just a creepy teenager who probably enjoys thinking about dismembering people in his free time.

Nope. He can't think like that.

He's just a _normal_ teenager, who definitely _doesn't_ think about disembowelment in his free time.

Yes, that's better.

His day passes quickly, in a blur of classes and homework. It’s the nervous anticipation he experiences that makes the hours of lessons pass faster than they normally do. Even history of magic doesn’t seem to drag on for ages, like it usually does. 

“Are you ready?” asks Orion. They’re sitting in their dorm, waiting for everyone to return to their respective common rooms after dinner. Soon, they’ll leave the Slytherin quarters and go to whatever ritual space Riddle (because of course it has to be Riddle) has prepared for them.

Is he ready? Is he ready to perform an illegal and potentially dark ritual with a budding Dark Lord? “As ready as I'll ever be.”

“I still can’t believe you’ve never done this before” says Lestrange.

“Lived with a squib, remember?” he asks. If he really did, then his lack of knowledge would be excusable. But he didn’t. He went to Hogwarts for four years and he still had no idea about pagan rituals. Why? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know a lot of things, these days.

“That must’ve been dreadful” says Lestrange, and Harry shrugs. Living with the Dursleys was, and _is,_ awful but not for the reasons Lestrange thinks it is.

“Come on, I think we’ve been waiting long enough" says Orion.

The three of them leave the common room. Orion leads them through a set of stairs, a secret passage, and then another one, some more stairs, and then they’re standing in one of the seventh-floor corridors. There’s nothing in it unless you count the tapestry depicting… trolls dancing ballet? It doesn’t seem like the greatest place to perform a ritual. Especially since the headmaster's office is just around the corner.

“There’s nothing here” he says.

“Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet, dear cousin” says Orion with a mischievous glint in his eyes. He looks just like his mother, in that moment.

The other boy is right. After not even a minute of waiting, Harry is beginning to see a faint outline of a door on the wall opposite the tapestry. He’s sure that it has not been there before. And then the outline is not an outline anymore but an ornate door.

“After you” Orion says, pointing at the door.

Harry grabs the silver door handle and pulls. It opens easily, even though it looks heavy and rusty. The room it opens to is enormous and it seems way too big for only eight students. It’s definitely charmed because there’s no way it can fit on the corridor they came in from. 

The room would look like a proper dungeon, with its stone walls, low ceiling, and torches providing the only light, if not for the green and silver cushions scattered all around the room and the big circle that is in its middle. The circle is made up of two lines of faintly glowing runes. Between the two lines, there are eight smaller rings, laid out in regular intervals. In the circle’s center, there is a crystal bowl with a flickering flame inside of it. Riddle is kneeling next to the outer line of runes with his wand in hand, no doubt providing finishing touches. Harry recognises some of the runes. There's one for communication, heritage, visions and revelations, and, of course, for death. There are more, but Harry has no idea what they mean. The circle itself signifies, of course, the circle of life. The bowl with the flame inside of it also signifies something but Harry can't remember what.

“Impressive, huh?” Lestrange asks. “I still have no idea how Riddle found this room.”

“I can’t go around sharing all of my secrets, can I?” says Riddle, not even bothering to look up from the runes. He looks eerie like this - half of his face aglow from warm, orange light provided by the torches and the other half illuminated by the silver gleam of the runes. He looks like a mystical creature, a fallen angel residing on earth. Harry is strangely fascinated by the sight. It somewhat reminds him of the way Claire looked yesterday, with her face bathed in the sunlight.

When the other boy finally raises his head, his gaze is immediately drawn to Harry. He raises one of his brows as if to say _I thought you wouldn’t come._ A small part of Harry’s mind wonders when he started to understand Riddle from even the slightest quirks of his eyebrows. 

“I’m done” the prefect says, turning to Orion and Lestrange. “Where are Abraxas and Tedeus?”

“They should be here any minute” says Orion.

Riddle nods and glances at Harry again. There is something in Riddle’s cinnamon eyes, like he's waiting for Harry to leave. It already is the longest they spent in the same room, outside of the classrooms and their dorm. Harry narrows his eyes, as if to say _I’m not leaving, this time._ Judging by the small quirk of the other boy’s lips, Riddle understood his message.

In that moment, all Harry can see is the semi-transparent figure in the Chamber of Secrets. _She won't wake,_ he said, with a small smirk on his lips, so similar to the one that graces the lips of real-life Riddle right now.

Harry shakes his head, expelling the image from his mind

 _Riddle is a normal teenager, who doesn't think about murdering muggleborns all the time,_ he reminds himself. _He's a normal human being. He has not yet found the Chamber, he has not yet murdered Myrtle. He's a teenager, just like me._

He continues to look at Riddle, stubbornly refusing to be the one to look away first. He hopes his mental shields are strong enough to hide that thought from the other boy. If they aren't then, well, he might be in quite a lot of trouble.

The door opens, and they both stop their staring match to look at Malfoy and Nott.

“Let us begin” Riddle says and moves to sit cross-legged in one of the smaller circles. Harry immediately takes place as far as he can from Riddle, without having to face him directly. Just because there is a temporary truce between the two of them doesn’t mean he wants to be closer to Riddle than absolutely necessary. The other boys fill out the empty circles until Orion sits at Harry's right and Tedeus at his left.

His heart is hammering wildly in his chest. He’s nervous, and just a tiny bit scared. He memorised the ritual, so there’s no way he can mess it up, but that’s not what he’s scared of. He’s scared of what the ritual will bring. Will he be able to communicate with Cedric and parents? Will he be able to feel anything, as far from his own time as he is? Will they join him or will he be alone?

"Samhain is here, and it is a time of transitions" Riddle begins, his voice smooth and melodious. The steady and sure way he begins the ritual means it's not the first time he's done it. Harry is not surprised. He expected Riddle to be experienced. "The Wheel of the Year turns once more and we cycle into darkness." As the ritual magic is evoked, the flame in the crystal bowl grows, so contrary to what Riddle has just said.

"This is a time of the Dark, a time of death and dying" continues Lestrange. "This is the night when the gateway between our world and the spirit world is thinnest." 

The flame glows even brighter now and Harry suddenly remembers what it symbolises - the impermanence of life. Fire is a temporary thing, after all. It appears suddenly, consuming the fuel, burning brightly, blinding anyone who gets too close. And when there's nothing left for it to consume, it disappears, leaving only the ash of its fuel behind.

"This is the night of our ancestors and of the Ancient Ones, the night to call out those who came before" continues Orion.

Now it's Harry's turn.

"Spirits of my fathers and mothers, I call to you, and welcome you to join me for this night" intones Harry, willing his voice to sound as steady as Riddle's, "and I ask of you to grant me visions on this holy night."

He thinks he did it.

"Now is the time for all of us to call upon those that we wish to communicate with" says Riddle.

Harry takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He knows what he has to say. He can do it.

"I call upon James and Lily Potter, father and mother of mine" he whispers quietly, quietly enough that he's sure neither Orion nor Tedeus can hear him. "Your blood runs in my veins and your spirit is in my heart. You watch over me, protecting and guiding me. Tonight, I thank you" he draws another shaky breath before continuing. "I also call upon Cedric Diggory, my friend, lost forever because of me. Please grant me visions on this night of power."

As they call upon their loved ones, the runes glow brighter and brighter, until the entire room is filled with soft, silvery light, overpowering even the light from the torches and the flames in the crystal bowl. It feels magical. Literally. Harry can feel the magic of the ritual in the air, filling every nook and cranny of the room with pure power. It's incredible. And just a tad overwhelming.

"And now we wait" says Riddle softly, after all the boys stop whispering. He also seems to be affected by the magic in the air, looking blissful, ecstatic, even. It's the most emotion Harry has ever seen on the boy's face.

He closes his eyes once again, pushing all thoughts of Riddle out of his mind and focusing on the ritual magic.

He's not here to observe Riddle.

* * *

  
  


Harry comes to from his meditative trance with a small jerk. He blinks a couple of times. The room is dim, the shadows more prominent than before. The torches and the flames in the bowl must've flickered out in the time Harry was out of the count. He doesn't know how much time that was, but he suspects that his trance was anything but short. After all, it must've taken quite a while for all the flames to die out.

He straightens his legs, only to find them numb, which is not all that surprising when one considers that he's been sitting in the same position for Merlin knows how long.

He leans back and runs a hand through his hair. He can still feel tears on his cheeks, their trails marking his face like scars.

_It worked._

It actually worked.

Granted, the visions were not what he expected they would be, but it still worked.

He didn't get to speak to his parents and neither did they speak to him. The vision he received was more like a series of sensations, concepts, vague feelings hard to grasp.

Well, not all of them were hard to grasp.

He could, very clearly, feel their love for him, everlasting and unconditional. He felt safe, cared for, and protected, his parents' presence warming him inside out, enveloping him in a tight embrace.

A couple of months ago, in the graveyard, when he saw the ghostly apparitions of his parents, he thought that this would be the closest he’s ever going to get to them. Oh, how wrong he was. This was better than any vision, any ghostly figure telling him to _run._ This… this was what being loved must feel like. It's the first time Harry has ever felt something like this and he finds himself longing for more. Now that he got a taste of what being loved no matter what feels like, he yearns to feel it again.

Some of the feelings were harder to decipher but he still managed to do it. Pride. Acceptance. Concern. Others, he couldn't make sense of. But it doesn't really matter. Because it worked, even though he didn't expect it to.

But, on top of all the sensations his parents have given him, he felt _connected._ He felt one with something bigger than himself, bigger than all of life, even. He can't quite comprehend what it was and what it meant but it was simply magnificent. He felt… he truly felt like a part of _everything._ Joined with every single part of the universe, at peace and unafraid. Complete.

 _Does it always feel like this?_ he wonders.

Cedric didn't make an appearance. Harry has no idea why. Does the other boy hate him, even in the afterlife? Does he blame him?

No, there's no use thinking about such things. Unless Cedric decides to communicate with him, he's never going to know for sure. He shouldn't torment himself.

He looks around to find that almost all the other boys have already vacated the room. Only he and Riddle are still here.

The other boy sits still, save for the steady movement of his chest, rising and falling in time with his breaths. Once again, he looks like a statue, but now with his face shrouded in shadows, not light. Harry thinks it's fitting that the shadows inside of Riddle's soul are now reflected on the boy's face.

 _He's not Voldemort yet,_ he reminds himself.

He wonders who the other boy is communicating with, if anyone at all. His parents? _Surely you didn't think I'd keep my filthy muggle father's name?_ Not his father, then. His mother? Dorea told him, back in September, that he never knew her. He doesn't seem like the type to desperately wish to talk with someone he never even knew. _Unlike me,_ Harry thinks. But he has reason to. He never really thought about his parents, not until he found out that they died protecting him. Even though he never knew them, the knowledge that they've given their lives for him was enough to make him love them and long to have them back. Did Riddle's mother die protecting him? Did she die loving him? If she did, does he know it? Or does he think she abandoned him? Does he hate her? Or does he want to have her back? Did he, just like Harry, spend his childhood wishing for someone to come and take him away, give him home and love him unconditionally? Did he long to be held by a parent and know that they accept him, no matter what? 

Harry looks away from the other boy.

They're both orphans but Riddle's parents didn't die for him. They didn't die to give him a chance to live. Well, Harry knows that his father didn't. Voldemort said, after all, that his father abandoned his mother. Does Riddle know this already? Does he know that his own father didn't want him? Does he think that his mother didn't want him either? _Did_ she want him? Did she await the birth of her baby, excited and impatient? Did she die to let him live?

Maybe she did, but Harry doesn't think Riddle would hate her so much if that was the case. Harry doesn't think he'd be so angry all the time, then. Would Harry be different, more bitter, had Hagrid not told him about his parents' sacrifice? Would Riddle be different, had someone told him that his parents wanted him to live a long and happy life? That they _cared?_

Would _he_ care? Would the knowledge that his parents loved him make him feel better? Would that lie save him from becoming a monster?

Harry remembers his years at the Dursleys', unloved and ostracised, called names and pushed over. Does Riddle feel this lonely? Does Riddle feel this unloved? Harry doesn't, not anymore. Not since Hagrid had told him about his parents. Does Riddle still feel it? Is it why he wants to prove himself, so desperately? Is it why he needs sycophants to kiss the hem of his robes and whisper, _My Lord?_

Harry feels just the tiniest bit sad for him. Nobody deserves to grow up unloved, nobody deserves to be alone, abandoned by everyone, even their own family.

Who does Riddle talk to, with his eyes closed and his legs crossed? Who did he call, who did he long to meet? Is he with someone or is he alone?

"I'm sorry" he whispers and leaves the room, not all that eager to find out whether Riddle has heard him or not.

He doesn't know why he said it. He doesn't even know what he's sorry for. It was probably a very, very stupid thing so do. But he _does_ feel sorry for Riddle, even though the other boy would not appreciate the sentiment. He feels sorry for all the years he spent alone and unloved, and for all the years he will spend alone and unloved, thinking that love and friendship is what makes a person weak. He's sorry because he knows how that loneliness feels. He knows it and he doesn't wish it upon anyone, not even his biggest enemy.


	12. Chapter 12

When Harry wakes up the next morning (or noon, rather, as it is already past 12 pm), he can still feel the bliss of the ritual. He feels light, as if all of his troubles and worries have been lifted from his shoulders.

Claire was, as per usual, right. 

The ritual was unlike anything he has ever experienced. It was incredible. He felt loved and cherished, for the first time in his entire life. The Dursleys hate him, the wizarding world doesn't care most of the time, and his friends are great but that's what they are - just friends. They can't give him this sort of love, no matter how close they are.

Of course, on an intellectual level, he knew that his parents loved him. They _died_ for him. They sacrificed their lives so he could live. But to feel it... it's something else entirely.

It is everything he has ever wanted and then some.

It's overwhelming and brilliant, and _fuck_ he really has to thank Claire. Should he buy her a gift basket? Are gift baskets even a thing in the wizarding world? 

He stays in bed for a while longer, basking in the relaxing haze of the ritual. He can't remember feeling this calm in a long, long time.

He gets out of the bed, eventually, and goes to take a shower. The dorm is empty, giving him plenty of space and privacy. That's good. He doesn't think he wants to see anyone right now. His feelings are too intense for him to successfully engage in small talk with his roommates. 

As the water from the shower is running down his back, he wonders how the ritual worked. His parents are not even born yet, after all. And they won't be, for a long, long time. He feels doubt creeping into his chest. Maybe yesterday was a big, wonderful, completely fake hallucination. Maybe, for all of its brilliance, it wasn't even real. Did he imagine it all? 

He groans and bangs his head against the wall in frustration. Why does his life have to be so fucking complicated? Why, just when he thought that he experienced something real and incredible, did he have to find a reason for why it wasn't real? 

He needs to write to Arcturus. 

He can't think about it by himself, lest he comes to all the wrong conclusions. Whatever happens is true until proven otherwise.

He thinks that the actual phrase might be "innocent until proven guilty" but when twisted enough, it could apply to his situation, right?

Not that it matters. What matters is that he needs answers, which he is not going to get from anyone but Arcturus. Not only because the man is one of the smartest people Harry has ever met, but because he's one of precisely two people who know about Harry's little time travel problem.

He gets out of the shower, dries himself off, and goes on to find some parchment to write on.

As he sits down at the desk next to his bed, he realises that he doesn't know how to write the letter. Sure, in theory, it should be easy. But Harry has only ever written to Ron and Hermione. Who are his friends. Unlike Arcturus. Who happens to be the man who Harry lived with for a couple of weeks and a man Harry _needs,_ if he ever wants to go back to living his own life. A man who, for all his helpfulness, isn't Harry's friend.

And why exactly is he worried about writing a stupid letter? It's not the end of the world.

He groans. Really, he does an awful lot of groaning today. Maybe he should try to do something else. Like screaming. Yes, that would be nice, except he'd rather not have his classmates think he's possessed.

He desperately wishes he could go back to feeling relaxed and happy, like he did just half an hour earlier. He doesn't like feeling confused and frustrated, and annoyed.

He groans (again) and starts writing. He pens two drafts, before finally settling on the third one.

_Lord Black,_

_I hope this letter finds you well._

_I have a very significant question to ask you._

_Yesterday, I performed a Samhain ritual with your son and his friends and was surprised to find it successful - I have received visions from my deceased parents._

_How is that possible, when they do not even exist in this time? How could they communicate with me if they have not been born yet? How could they respond to a ritual designed to call upon the dead if they have never been alive? Was it only a figment of my imagination? Was it wishful thinking?_

_I look forward to receiving your response,_

_Harry_

Deciding that the letter is good enough, Harry dresses and leaves his dorm.

On his way out, he notices that the common room is full of Slytherins lounging lazily on the couches. They all look relaxed, more relaxed than he has ever seen any Slytherin look, at least in public. Or, well, the semi-public space that is their common room. They're all probably still feeling the effects of the ritual, just like he has before his mood soured because of the complicated art of writing letters. And, well, the possibility that it might not have been real. But seeing his housemates look so happy gives him hope, hope that it _was_ real, after all. Or maybe it was just a group hallucination. Induced by some sort of toxic fumes distributed at dinner.

He really ought to stop thinking. It's not going to get him anywhere.

As he exits the castle, he passes a couple of students, none of which try to talk to him, thankfully.

It's still warm outside, miraculously, and Harry enjoys the feeling of fresh air on his skin. Even though he _is_ worried about the possibility that someone might've drugged the entire school with hallucination-inducing gas, he takes it slow on the path to the Owlery. It's presumably one of the last days of sunshine this year and he wants to enjoy it properly. Besides, he doubts that Arcturus will be able to respond today.

He thinks about his friends. He wonders whether something terrible happened yesterday. Because all the terrible things _always_ happen on Halloween. It truly is a cursed day. First year it was the troll, then the Chamber of Secrets, then Sirius tried to sneak into the Gryffindor common room, and last year it was the stupid Goblet of Fire. And, of course, years before that, his parents were murdered. Now that he thinks about it, he's surprised that yesterday brought no disasters.

Not that it was uneventful, oh no.

He tries not to think too hard about yesterday's events though, because he _really_ doesn't want to think about Riddle right now.

It's nothing new. He doesn't want to think about Riddle most of the time, but usually, it's more in a you-make-me-uncomfortable-because-you'll-murder-my-parents kind of way, and not in an I-really-don't-want-to-think-about-how-lonely-you-must-be kind of way. He doesn't want to think about it because then he'd feel sorry for Riddle. And he shouldn't. Because Riddle is a terrible person.

But, Merlin help him, Harry still doesn't think that _anyone_ deserves to be treated the way the Dursleys treated him.

He feels annoyed with himself. He is _not_ supposed to _pity_ Lord fucking Voldemort. He's supposed to fight him, kill him, hate him, whatever. They're enemies, and enemies are not supposed to want a better life for each other.

Harry sighs. So much for not thinking about Riddle. Really, he should've known that trying not to think about the other boy is a hopeless endeavour. He's constantly at the forefront of Harry's mind. Not that Harry can be blamed for that. It's Riddle who's annoying and evil, and it's Riddle who probably needs a hug.

Not that Harry wants to hug Riddle, thank you very much. The prefect would probably curse him to hell and back if Harry tried to touch him. And even if he didn't, Harry still wouldn't want to touch the future dark lord.

As he enters the Owlery, he immediately notices that it's just as covered with bird droppings now, as it is in his time. One would think that the amount of bird-produced waste would steadily increase over the years, but it seems that that's not the case. The mountains of poop are just as big as he remembers them to be, for some inexplicable reason. Are they… _charmed_ to always maintain the same height? If so, why not just charm the floor to not get dirty at all? Sometimes Hogwarts confuses him. 

Carefully avoiding mountains of charmed bird droppings, he makes his way to a small barn owl with intelligent eyes. 

"Hi girl" he says, stroking her head. "Can you send this to Arcturus Black?"

She nips his finger, showing her understanding, and he gives her the letter. He watches her fly off quietly. He wonders how Hedwig is faring. He hopes that his friends are taking good care of her.

"Hi Harry." He turns at the familiar voice. It's Claire, leaning against the doorway. She's dressed in a lavender sweater and has her hair pulled back in a low ponytail. Harry assumes it's her _comfortable/relaxed_ look but she still somehow manages to look poised and elegant. 

"Hi" he greets. "Fancy seeing you here."

"I didn't see you at breakfast" she says.

"I slept in. After, you know…" he trails off.

"Ah, yes" she smiles. "How did 'you know' go?"

"It… it was great" he says. He wants to say more, he wants to hug her and cry, and scream about how amazing it was but he can't find it in himself to do any of those things. It was incredible but it felt... intimate, in a way. Sacred. Private. Solely _his._

"I don't want to say I told you so but," she smirks, "I told you so."

"Yes, well, thank you for that" and he means it. Unfortunately, he doesn't have any gift baskets on hand, so he has to settle on a verbal thank-you. Even though Claire deserves much, much more.

"You're welcome" she says.

He watches her choose an owl and send off her letter. When she’s done, she turns to look at him.

“Do you want to go on a walk?” she asks. “It would be a shame to waste such a nice day.”

As they walk, Claire talks about _something._ Harry does not doubt that it’s interesting, especially since Claire can make anything sound interesting, but he finds himself unable to focus on her words. They wash over him, almost as if he was submerged in water and she was saying something while standing on the surface.

He shakes his head at the right places. He laughs at the right places. He hums at the right places. He doesn't want to clue Claire in on his absent-mindedness. But that doesn't change the fact that he's not there with her. His mind is back in the room they performed the ritual in. He thinks about yesterday and then, inevitably, he starts thinking about Riddle again.

How messed up is that, huh? He’s on a walk with the most beautiful girl in the school and all he can think about is Riddle. He thinks about the other boy’s past and future. He thinks about their fates, always intertwined. He thinks about their lives, so similar and yet so different. He thinks about the boy's face, bathed in the soft, silvery glow of the runes.

Claire loops her arm through him, and he keeps thinking about the budding dark lord.

He is, officially, messed up.

* * *

Three days later, during breakfast, a big, brown owl deposits a letter on his plate.

He tears it open as quickly as he can.

_Dear Harry,_

_Before I even received your letter, I have been preparing to send you a letter of my own. The reason for that is that I have found how exactly you traveled into this time._

_Now, as the answer to your question and what I have found are in direct relation to each other, you will need to bear with me for a moment, as I explain the magic of the necklace that brought you here._

_It is widely believed that traveling past six hours is impossible. It is not true. Short-term time travel, the one that can only transport a person six hours into the past, works by simply taking the traveler to the time of his or her choosing. Long-term time travel is a bit more complicated but not impossible. It only works in one instance - when the traveler is in some way connected to a given time. That connection allows an entering that the traveler can utilise. There are, of course, more requirements to be met if someone wishes to travel in time but for the time being, they don't matter to you._

_I do not know what the connection is in your instance. I don’t even know what kind of connection is required for this to work, as time travel is a complicated thing that is constantly being investigated by the Unspeakables. It might be something as simple as an emotional connection or it might not. What matters, is that the connection you have to something in this time allowed you to be transported here._

_But what happened to you is not simply time travel._

_You see, the necklace didn’t simply transport you to another point in time. It transported you to another point in time, in a parallel timeline. It was meant to transport you into August of the year 1995, on the same day and hour that you touched the pendant, just in a different timeline. However, the connection you have was strong enough to prevent that. It intercepted you in the middle of your travel to another timeline and brought you into the year 1943, the year to which you are connected in one way or another._

_As I think about it, it's good that you traveled between timelines, and not simply in time, as you do not have to fear undoing your own birth. You don't have to fear accidentally changing your own time into something unrecognisable, either. Nothing you do here is going to impact you and those you care about. Where you come from, Harrison Black doesn’t exist. Once you come back to your home, you will only be Harry Potter._

_Now, to answer your question. Death is eternal. It exists beyond space and time. That’s why you were able to communicate with your parents - they don’t exist yet in this timeline, but they have already passed away in another. It does not matter for the spirits of your parents where you are - they will always come when called. It is worth noting that it only works with the soul you have a direct emotional connection to, so I doubt you would be able to summon someone not as important to you as your parents, like a deceased pet._

_I do not yet know how to return you to your own timeline. I will keep working on it but know that what I have found is a huge step forward. I suspect that I might be able to find a solution even before the school year ends. Do not lose hope. You will see your friends again._

_Sincerely,_

_Lord Arcturus Black_

_P.S. Melania sends her best regards._

Harry sets the letter down slowly.

Has he ever mentioned that he hates the word _connections?_ Because he does. What kind of a fucking connection can make someone travel in time? He doesn't have a connection to anyone here.

Unless you count the teenage dark lord who, right now, is drinking his tea and chatting with Abraxas Malfoy, looking perfectly at ease.

But Riddle has not yet tried to murder him, and thus has not created the connection. Wouldn't that mean that Harry is connected to Voldemort, not Riddle? The Voldemort of 1995, the one who tried to kill him three times already? Why did he end up in 1943? How is his connection to Riddle stronger than his connection to Voldemort? And what are the _other requirements_ one needs to meet in order to travel in time? Why are they not relevant to his situation?

So many questions, not enough answers.

Also, parallel timelines? What? Why? _How?_

Why would someone want to travel to a parallel timeline? Really, Harry knows from personal experience that it's not that fun.

It's… complicated and confusing. But then again, it's how his life has always been. It's like some God or some sort of higher consciousness is messing with his life, trying to make it as convoluted as humanly possible. Dead parents? Yes. Terrible childhood? Yes please. Magic? Sure, why not. Dark Lords? Possessed teachers? Big killer snakes? Teenage dark lords? Timeline-travel? I'll take it all, thank you.

He wants to bang his head against the table and scream in anguish. But that sort of behaviour is unbecoming of a Slytherin. Or any self-respecting human being, if he's being honest.

He needs to get out of here.

"I'm not feeling well" he says and gets up before anyone can respond. 

And he runs out of the Great Hall.

It’s all so confusing and fucking complicated. He wants a simple life. Not this, whatever it is.

He stops to lean against a wall. He tries to calm himself, breathing steadily until his heart stops beating so fast.

When he thinks about it, the letter brings good news. Yes, it’s complicated, but he’s going to see his friends again. He doesn’t need to understand how it works. It doesn’t matter. 

Because he’s coming back home.

Eventually.

* * *

  
  


"You were absolutely amazing!"

This sentence is the only warning he gets before his vision is full of Claire's curly hair.

They’re standing on the path leading up to the castle. He’s in his Quidditch gear, sweaty and exhausted after his first game as a Slytherin, and she’s dressed in a blue coat, looking as beautiful as always.

She squeezes him tightly, so tightly that he fears she might crush his ribcage.

"What I meant to say is," she says after she stops trying to kill him, "that you were adequate."

Harry snorts. He was certainly more than adequate, even though the game wasn’t _easy,_ by any stretch of the imagination. The weather has steadily been getting worse over the past few days, signalling the coming winter. Today, the wind on the pitch was terrible, making it hard for Harry to stabilise the already unwieldy broom. Still, he shouldn't complain. There was no rain, nobody tried to curse his broom, and the dementors never made an appearance. A good day indeed.

But that didn’t mean the game was easy. No, it dragged on for quite a while, as neither he nor the rival seeker were able to spot the snitch. And on the few occasions that one of them did catch a glimpse of the golden ball, it quickly vanished. So, he had to hover in the gusty and relentless wind, scanning the pitch for what seemed like hours. But, eventually, he _did_ catch the snitch, thereby bringing victory to the Slytherin team. Even if Ron for some reason doesn'tkill him for being a Slytherin, he definitely will kill him for winning Slytherin a Quidditch match.

“Thank you for your kind words” he says. “You know how to make a bloke feel good.”

He knows that his efforts on the pitch have not gone unnoticed by Claire but he would very much like to hear her say _‘you were amazing’_ again. He knows that his attempt at getting more compliments out of the girl is futile but he has to at least try. 

“I’m not going to praise you, lest your head gets bigger than it already is” she says.

“Excuse me? I’m a very humble person” he fakes indignation but he suspects that the effect might be ruined by his smile.

“May I remind you that one of the first things you have ever said to me was ‘I’m _very good_ at Quidditch’?” she asks, narrowing her eyes.

“Well, that’s because it’s true!” he exclaims. Because, well, it _is_ true. Quidditch is the only thing he is good at and he is not going to deny it.

“See? Big head” she laughs and he rolls his eyes.

“You’re not going to laugh once we crush Ravenclaw” he says. “You stand no chance.”

“Oh Harry, you are mistaken” she says. “It is you who stands no chance.”

Harry laughs.

They talk for a while before he excuses himself and goes to change out of his Quidditch robes. He still is a bit weirded out by the fact that they’re green, not red, but he doesn’t regret being a Slytherin. It’s surprisingly pleasant. Even if Ron is never going to let him live it down.

He realises that it’s the first time he can think about Ron and be absolutely sure he’s going to see him again. The thought makes him grin. As much as he enjoys his time here, there’s no place like home. And he _is_ going to come back home.

As he makes his way back to the Slytherin common room, everyone either congratulates him or glares at him like he's the next dark lord. He tries to pay them no attention, even if it's crushing to see Gryffindors despise him so openly. But he probably deserves it in their eyes. He's a Slytherin _and_ he beat them at Quidditch. A crime of the century.

He spends the rest of the day playing chess with Orion. The other boy is good, but not as good as Ron. And Harry knows that only because he managed to win twice, which never happens to him when he's playing with Ron.

After dinner there is a party in the common room. He doesn't want to go, as he's exhausted, but Dorea threatened to never talk to him again if he didn't go. So he goes.

As it turns out, Slytherins can throw a decent party. Well, for 1943, anyway.

The common room has been transformed into a party-friendly space. Some of the couches pushed back against the walls to create a dancefloor, desks put next to each other and completely covered with snacks and drinks. On top of one of them sits a huge gramophone playing what might be called _energetic jazz._ It’s not the sort of music Harry would personally choose for a party but it _is_ 1943\. The only alternative is classical music and Harry would rather not have to waltz. It didn’t turn out all that well the last time he tried. Parvati is probably still traumatised.

The sixth and seventh years are drinking firewhiskey, and overall behaving in a very un-pureblood manner. It’s bizarre to see all of the usually composed students let loose.

Harry secretly thinks that all that celebration is premature, as they only won one game. They can still lose the Quidditch cup. But nobody seems to care and he doesn’t want to sour their mood. Besides, any excuse to party is good. Or so he's heard. He never had much chance to party.

He drinks his butterbeer and dances with a couple of his classmates. Dorea even offers him firewhiskey but he declines. He doesn’t trust himself to keep his secrets while drunk.

He is the first to leave the party. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy it, he’s just tired. His muscles ache from flying in the wind for over two hours and all he can think about is the comfort of his bed. He sneaks out discreetly, hoping that Dorea didn't notice him.

He takes a shower, changes into his sleepwear, and leaves the bathroom to get under his warm, green, silky covers. And sleep as long as he can.

“Were you not enjoying the party?”

Shit. Riddle.

It’s the first thing the boy has said to him since Harry’s sorting. It surprises Harry so much that he stops in his tracks. He’s not prepared to talk to Riddle. Had he known that the boy plans to talk to him, he would’ve created some sort of strategy. Taken notes. Prepared. Prayed for help from the gods. Whatever.

“I’m just tired” he says, after what is too long to pass for an acceptable break. 

“Yes, I imagine you would be” Riddle says, somehow managing to make it sound ominous and just a bit threatening. “Good job on the pitch.”

Is Riddle… complimenting him? Is Harry hallucinating? Just _what_ was in these tiny sandwiches he ate at the party? “I didn’t take you for a Quidditch fan.” Again, it took him way too long to answer. 

“Oh, I’m not. I think it’s a waste of time. But I don’t need to like it to know something about it.”

Of course he thinks it’s a waste of time. Harry barely manages to refrain from rolling his eyes. “What is _not_ a waste of time, in your opinion?” This time the pause wasn’t that long and Harry congratulates himself on it. It is a small victory but a victory nonetheless.

This time it is Riddle who doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at Harry and he has to keep himself from squirming. The scrutiny of Riddle’s gaze is uncomfortable, to say the least. “Why do you hate me so much?” he asks, finally.

“I don’t hate you” says Harry, this time too fast to make it sound natural. He really should learn how to improve his conversational skills.

“No? Then why do you refuse to look at me, most of the time? Why, when you deign to look at me, is it more of a hateful glare than anything else? Why do you refrain from being in the same room with me for longer than absolutely necessary? Why did you not shake my hand, the first time we met?”

All of those are excellent questions and Harry can’t answer any of them. He knows all the answers but he can’t give them to Riddle. The consequences of that would be horrible. So he keeps quiet.

“You see,” Riddle continues, “at first I thought my muggle name was the problem but you do not seem to be overly prejudiced. So I can’t see why you can’t even be bothered to _act_ like you tolerate me. You do not even know me and yet you hate me. Why?”

He can’t find a good excuse. He’s trying to think of anything to say but all of his legitimately good reasons for hating Riddle won’t help him in this situation. 

“And then there was Samhain” the boy says. “What _are_ you sorry for, Harrison?”

Well shit. How does one disappear? Harry wishes he had his time-travel necklace with him so he could just touch it and never see Riddle again. He’s about to run out of the room and hide in one of the abandoned classrooms indefinitely, when he feels a prickling in his mind.

“What the fuck Riddle?!” he asks, as he pushes the other boy out of his head with all the mental strength he can muster. “You can’t just go around reading people’s minds for no fucking reason.”

“What’s your reason?” the boy asks, effectively shutting Harry up and making him really, _really_ confused.

“What?” he asks.

“You’re fairly good at occlumency” he states, as if that wasn’t fucking obvious. “What do you have to hide?”

“Oh fucking hell, Riddle” Harry groans. “Just because I know how to protect my mind doesn’t mean I have some big, evil secret to hide. Maybe I just don’t want people to know every fucking detail of my life.”

“I don’t care about your life” oh, if only he knew anything about Harry’s life, he would _definitely_ care about it. “I just want to know why you hate me so much.”

“You could’ve, oh, I don’t know, _asked”_ Harry says. Thank Merlin for all the occlumency books he's read. He dreads to think about what would've happened had his mind been unprotected.

“I asked, but you didn’t answer me.”

“Look, I don’t hate you” Harry says. “I really don’t. But I don’t like you either. You creep me out. And if you think I haven’t noticed you and everyone else in this dorm sneaking out at midnight to do Merlin-knows-what, you’re wrong. I don’t know what your deal is but I have no desire to be involved in your little cult.”

“Who said anything about a cult?” he asks.

“I’m not stupid, Riddle” Harry says, rolling his eyes. “But I am tired. So could you please leave me alone?”

“You know nothing about me” the boy says and oh, how wrong he is. Harry knows more about Riddle than even Riddle himself does. But he decides not to mention that for now. Or ever. “I’m a stranger and yet you assume the worst of me. Why is that? For all you know we could be sneaking out to participate in orgies.”

Harry splutters because _what?_ Did Riddle just…? Nope, he is _not_ going to think about what Riddle just said. He’d rather keep his sanity intact. 

He takes a deep breath in. “What do you want me to do, Riddle? I don’t like you, end of story. And you certainly are not going to convince me to be your friend by reading my mind.”

He turns around and walks to his bed. “Goodnight” he says, even though he hopes for Riddle to have a _terrible_ night. He draws his curtains and puts the strongest sticking charm he knows on them.

What the fuck just happened?

What did Riddle hope to achieve? Make Harry hate him more? Well, mission fucking accomplished.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO HI HOW ARE YOU  
> It's been way too long, I know. The universe has been using me as its own personal punching bag for the last few months, and I didn't really have the time or the energy to write. But I'm back now! I'll try to update the fic regularly but we'll see how that goes.  
> Huge thanks to everyone who's read my story so far and to everyone who's left kudos or comments. You guys are the best!

Claire is on a mission.

A very important mission.

A mission that cannot, under any circumstances, fail.

Fine, that might be a tad overdramatic. After all, it’s not a life or death situation. Still, it’s important for her sanity and the sanity of all those around her that she succeeds.

She enters the library and mumbles a quiet greeting at the librarian. She looks around for a while, before heading towards the tables in the back. She makes her way past one bookshelf, then another, and then another, valiantly refraining from running her fingers along the spines of the books that sit on their shelves. She’s not here to browse the countless books waiting to be read. Those delicious, full of knowledge books. Oh, how she’d love to consume them, absorb the wisdom hidden on their pages. But no. Not right now. With great effort, she ignores the yearning in her chest and trudges past yet another bookshelf. She's here on a mission, and she can’t afford to be distracted. She _needs_ answers and since Harry refuses to give them to her, she needs to seek them elsewhere. And there’s only one other person that can answer that particular question, the one question that she doesn’t yet know the answer to.

She makes her way to the back of the library and that’s where she finds him. Just as she predicted. He’s sitting surrounded by books, his quill scratching rhythmically against the parchment. So predictable.

She sighs.

Here goes nothing.

"Riddle" she greets, as she sits down across from the Slytherin. The boy looks up, surprise flickering across his face just for a second, before he manages to school his expression into an impassive mask. It figures he won’t make things easy for her by being transparent, just for once in his life.

"Ferring" he says, putting away his book. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

“I have a question for you, which I expect you to answer honestly” which, knowing Riddle (and Slytherins in general), is not going to happen. Still, she has to at least try. "What did you do and why does Harry hate you so much?"

Riddle's brows rise minutely, which, she supposes, is as much of a reaction as she can get out of the boy. 

"You don't know?" he asks. Because _of course_ he can't give her a straight answer. Slytherins.

"No, I don’t" she says, barely refraining from rolling her eyes. If she knew, she wouldn’t be here. "I hope you can enlighten me.”

"I’m sorry, but I'll have to disappoint you" he says, leaning back in his chair. "Because I have no idea. I asked him why he despises me so much, but he insisted that he _doesn’t_ hate me. Which I find quite hard to believe.”

Claire looks at him for a long moment, pondering the honesty of that statement. She sees no reason for Riddle to lie to her, and besides, that seems like something Harry would say. She sighs. “I don’t know why he’s acting this way” Claire says. “I asked him, on multiple occasions, why he hates you, but he refuses to tell me. All he ever talks about is how annoying you are. _Riddle this, Riddle that,_ _Riddle is so annoying, I want to…_ oh my god."

Oh my god indeed.

Looks like she got her answer, after all. Just not from where she expected to get it.

"Pardon?" Riddle asks, not even bothering to conceal his confusion. _Now_ he’s being transparent.

"I have to go" she says and stands up. "Goodbye, Riddle. You’ve been the most helpful."

She turns on her heel and runs out of the library, a slow grin spreading across her face.

Now, this is an _interesting_ turn of events.

* * *

Harry feels Riddle staring at him. It’s not really a new phenomenon - or a surprising one - but it still makes him scowl at his breakfast and viciously jab his eggs with his fork.

It’s been a week since their… _confrontation_ and not much has changed between them. For the most part, they still ignore each other. Harry still avoids Riddle whenever he can, distancing himself from the other boy whenever he can’t. And Riddle... Riddle is his usual annoying self, wordlessly challenging Harry to staring contests and smirking at him with that smug smirk of his. But, for some reason, the other boy puts Harry more on edge than he used to. The searching looks, the self-satisfies smiles - it all unnerves Harry in a way it never had before.

He doesn’t understand why and he _hates_ it.

It's not like Riddle didn't do any of that before. He did. But somehow, it used to be less obtrusive, made him feel less _on display._

He scowls and stabs his eggs again.

“What did your poor breakfast do to offend you?” asks Dorea. She’s sitting across from him, writing in a notebook, seemingly not paying attention to the world around her. In the time he’s known her, he’s learned that she _always_ pays attention, no matter where or when. It’s one of her more terrifying qualities, one that makes him glad she’s his friend, not foe.

“I’m tired, that’s all” he says, which is partially true. He _is_ tired. He would’ve been in a less than ideal mood this morning, even without Riddle trying to burn a hole through his head with his gaze. 

Suddenly, Harry is very glad Riddle is not Superman, otherwise he might’ve been in trouble. And by _in trouble_ , he means _dead about three months ago._

Dorea looks up from her notebook and levels him with an unimpressed look. She doesn’t say anything and neither does he, and after a moment she rolls her eyes and comes back to writing.

That’s another terrifying quality of hers - always being able to read him, always being able to tell when he’s lying and when he’s telling the truth. He wonders whether it's a Dorea-specific quality, or whether he's just easy to read. It never used to be a problem before.

He scowls yet again and goes back to playing with his food.

After five minutes of him scowling, Dorea writing, Riddle staring at him and their housemates peacfully eating breakfast, he decides that he’s not hungry anymore, and gets up to leave.

His first class of the day is potions (why someone thought letting a bunch of teenagers play with potentially explosive materials at eight in the morning is a good idea is beyond him) so he heads towards the dungeons.

He is, of course, early, having left breakfast before anyone else. He sits down on the cool stone floor, leaning his back against the wall.

He doesn’t want to think, since thinking about _anything_ always leads to him thinking about Riddle, so he closes his eyes and starts clearing his mind. For all that he complains about occlumency, it’s a useful skill to have. Not only does it protect his mind from the likes of Riddle but it also helps him stop thinking, something he utilised on many occasions, especially during the past week. Thinking is a wonderful ability but sometimes he just wants - needs - to turn it off. He takes a deep, calming breath, focusing on the chill of the stone under him, and the hardness of the wall behind him. He focuses on the feel of his body, the regular rhythm of his heartbeat, the way his lungs expand with each breath he takes and contract with each breath he lets out. In that moment, nothing matters. His thoughts about Riddle fade away, becoming a barely noticeable buzz at the back of his mind. He forgets about the fact that he’s living in an era not his own, and his fear and anxiety at being stuck here fade away too. It doesn’t matter. Nothing does.

He’s so immersed in this meditative trance that he doesn’t notice his classmates slowly pouring into the corridor, and then leaving, as soon as the door to the Potions classroom opens.

What finally brings him out of his trance is Slughorn looking out into the corridor. “Mr. Black, will you be joining us today?” he asks jovially, making Harry start.

“I’m so sorry professor” he says as he’s getting up and straightening his robes. “I didn’t notice the class has already started.”

“Oh, it’s quite alright my boy” Slughorn says with a wink. “Believe me when I say that I too would much rather be sleeping right now. Now come, take your place.”

Harry slips into the classroom, heading towards his usual spot next to Dorea, only to find it taken by Elizabeth Greengrass. 

He looks at Dorea with what he hopes to be a betrayed and heartbroken look but she only shrugs. “First come, first served” she says lightly and turns to chat with her friend.

He sighs and looks around for a free seat.

And of course, because he’s Harry _fucking_ Potter and he always has the worst luck, the only free seat is next to Riddle. The other boy looks at him and raises his brows in a silent challenge. Harry is certain Riddle orchestrated this, the smug bastard.

He’s not quite sure why Riddle would do such a thing but it simply reeks of Riddle’s influence.

“Mr. Black, please do sit down, I’d like to begin my lesson” Slughorn says, and Harry is forced to make his way to the front of the classroom (because _of course_ Riddle sits in front of the fucking classroom) and sit down on Riddle’s left. He leans as far away from the other boy as he can without falling off his stool, trying to do it as surreptitiously as he can. Judging from the way Riddle smirks, he is unsuccessful.

Slughorn begins the lesson but Harry finds it impossible to pay attention to what the teacher is saying. All he can think about is how close Riddle is, how he can feel the heat radiate off the other boy’s body. He’s acutely aware of every shift Riddle makes, every movement, and every breath. He feels as if he’s acquired a new, uncooperative addition to his body, with how aware of Riddle he is.

He knows he’s being ridiculous. The Slytherin prefect would never attack him right in front of one of their professors but it’s not enough to make him relax. His focus is on Riddle and Riddle only, no matter how hard he tries to ignore the other boy and focus on Slughorn’s lecture.

He barely registers the name of the potion they’re brewing today, quickly looking over the list of required ingredients before moving to retrieve them from the shelves. He grabs all he needs, comes back to Riddle’s table, and starts working on the potion. He’s still concious of Riddle’s movements, his attention split between his potion and the boy.

It’s going to be a miracle if the potion turns out alright.

They work quietly side by side, Harry taking extra caution to make sure their arms or hands don’t brush accidentally. The silence between them is heavy, the tension so thick it could be cut with a knife. It’s a far cry from the easy and companionable silence he’s used to working in. It makes him even more anxious, his muscles taut and ready for the inevitable explosive end that this type of silence usually precedes.

But Riddle seems to be completely focused on brewing. He’s stirring, cutting, and crushing with calm precision, determined for his potion to be the best, as always. Harry is not delusional enough to think that the other boy would mess up his perfect academic performance only for him, so after a while, he relaxes minutely and starts paying more attention to what he's doing.

Without Snape there to tower over him and bark commands and/or insults at him, potion brewing is a fairly calming process. It’s also not as tough as he previously thought it to be. It’s a lot like cooking, something he has had a ton of practice with, courtesy of aunt Petunia. There's a recipie, there are ingredients, and the only difficulty of the task is following said recipie. He’s no potion master, and he never will be, but he’s better than he used to be with Snape as a teacher. He lets himself focus completely on brewing, and after ten minutes of slicing, mashing, mixing, and stirring, the rest of the world fades away. Even Riddle’s presence becomes less invasive.

He adds the vervain infusion to the cauldron, stirs twice, and moves to add the dried billywig stings, when a hand catches his wrist. It’s a pale hand, with long, nimble fingers, that decidedly belong to Riddle.

“Wha-” he begins, moving to yank his hand out of the other boy's grasp.

“If you add the stings now the potion will explode” the boy says calmly. He looks at Harry for what feels like ages, still holding his wrist, his gaze searching for Merlin knows what. Harry can hear his heart beating wildly in his chest and his blood pounding in his ears. His muscles are frozen and he finds himself unable to move away from Riddle, even though he knows he should. The stay like that for what feels like forever before Riddle lets go of his hand and goes back to his potion, as if nothing unusual happened.

For his part, Harry stays still for another several seconds, trying to process what just happened.

Riddle _touched him._

The skin on his wrist where just a minute ago Riddle’s hand has been is burning. When he looks at it, he’s surprised that the skin is unmarred, no trace of a handprint Harry expected to find there.

* * *

“He _touched_ me!”

“Congratulations” Claire says dryly, her nose buried in her Arithmancy textbook.

They're sitting in the fourth-floor corridor. Well, Claire is sitting and trying to study, while he is pacing and having a minor breakdown over what happened ealier.

“No, you don’t understand” he says. “He _touched_ my hand.”

She looks at him, then, and sighs. “I think you’re a tad too old to be pulling your hair out over a boy holding your hand. ”

“We didn’t _hold hands”_ Harry scoffs. “That sounds like something couples do, something romantic. No, he _assaulted me_ by grabbing my wrist. There’s nothing romantic about that.”

Claire shoots him an exasperated look. “I hardly think that grabbing someone’s wrist to stop them from blowing themselves up counts as assault.”

She's right. But the whole situation has put him on edge. It's the closest he and Riddle have been since that evening a week ago, and it's closer than he would ever like to be with Riddle. For Merlin's sake, they _touched._ Touching Voldemort has nevr been a pleasant experience. He's almost surprised none of them ended up on the floor, screaming in pain.

“But he’s not _supposed_ to touch me!” he yells, running a hand through his hair. This is ridiculous.

“Why not?” she asks, quirking her head to the side.

“We hate each other!” he says, irritated. “People who hate each other are not supposed to touch unless they’re fighting, and they’re definitely not supposed to stop each other’s potions from blowing up!”

“Harry, he doesn’t hate you” Claire says, looking as unimpressed as ever. “For Merlin’s sake, he’s _nice_ to you.”

Harry snorts. “He’s not _nice_ to me” he says. “He stares at me for unnecessarily long periods of time and smirks whenever I look at him. That hardly counts as _nice._ ”

“Fine, not nice. Amicable” Claire amends.

“What about “Riddle does everything in his power to annoy me” strikes you as _amicable?_ ” he asks. “He’s the bane of my existence, the thorn in my side, the headache I have to suffer daily. He’s not amicable, he’s _terrible._ ”

Claire groans. “I’m not having this conversation. Every conversation we have about Riddle goes the same way. You insist he’s evil, I insist he’s fine, you say _you don’t understand_ and start pouting. I don’t have anything new to add and neither do you, so spare us both the trouble and shut up, and let me study in peace.”

Fine. She has a point. One might even go as far as to say she has a _very_ good point. His complaints about Riddle always sound like the same pitiful, overdramatic whining, and even he can see that.

If he’s being honest with himself, he doesn’t really know why he hates Riddle. 

He used to hate him for all the pain the other boy has caused him in another life, the life he hasn’t gotten to live yet. He used to loathe him for the man he would eventually become, the man who would hurt him again, and again, and again. He used to wish to kill him, to murder him, to end the war that hasn’t yet begun. But not anymore. Sometimes, it’s too easy to see how Riddle came to be the next Dark Lord, how he became the monster that would haunt Harry’s worst nightmares. But most of the time, Riddle is just another teenager. Angry, manipulative, hypocritical, powerful, and _brilliant_ teenager. He’s not Voldemort. He will be, there’s no stopping that, but he’s not the man Harry knows so well. Not just yet.

Riddle, for all his irritating qualities, is better than Voldemort. He’s smarter, more controlled, less unhinged. Harry doesn’t know when and _why_ it all went wrong but he supposes he should be glad it did. He suspects that he would not come out alive from a fight with an older, more experienced - and more powerful - version of Tom Marvolo Riddle.

So, Harry knows he used to hate Riddle for everything the boy has done to hurt Harry. What he doesn’t know is why he hates Riddle _now._

He _is_ annoying but he’s not annoying enough to unnerve Harry as much as he does. He _is_ a hypocritical jerk but that’s not nearly enough to make Harry’s blood boil. Claire is right. He’s perfectly cordial every time he interacts with Harry. Well, every time except for that one evening, but that one evening is not something Harry voluntarily thinks about. He’d rather keep what’s left of his sanity intact, thank you very much.

He sighs heavily and sits down next to Claire. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me” he says. “He shouldn’t irritate me this much.”

Claire gasps and puts her hand over her heart, her eyes widening in faux shock. “I take it back, apparently you _do_ have something new to add to this conversation” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I never, _ever_ thought I’d live to see the day when you admit Riddle is not a bad person.”

He rolls his eyes. “I never said he’s not a bad person.”

“Oh, believe me, he’s not” she says. “I’ve known him longer than you and I can confidently say that he is many things, but evil is not one of them.”

Harry almost snorts. It’s impossible for _anyone_ to know Riddle as well as he does. But Claire doesn’t know that, and he can’t tell her, so doesn't say anything.

“I’ve never even seen the two of you talk” he tells her instead. “I doubt you know him all that well.”

Claire hums. “We’re not friends, that’s true. We don’t braid each other’s nails and braid each other’s hair, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know him. I know he was the first ‘‘mudblood’’ in Slytherin. I know he had to fight for his place harder than anyone else. I know nobody in Slytherin looked at him for who he was rather than who they thought him to be. He’s not evil. He is what the circumstance has made him. He’s… cold and aloof sometimes, but that doesn’t make him a bad person. He has an enormous ego but, between you and me, it’s not completely undeserved. He’s _human,_ just like you and I, so of course he’s going to have faults. But they don’t make him a bad person.”

* * *

  
  


Dorea stops in her tracks as soon as she steps into the Slytherin common room.

It looks almost as it always does. The green light coming through the windows is mixing with the red of the fire that lights the fireplace, her fellow Slytherins are studying or talking, not a piece of furniture out of place. Except…

“Are… are Harry and Tom in the same room? At the same time?” she asks, not quite able to believe her eyes.

Everyone in Slytherin knows that there is _something_ going on between Riddle and the newest addition to the Black family. Nobody really knows what that _something_ is. Not even Tom Riddle himself, if Orion is to be believed.

She’s torn between feeling amused and annoyed at the situation. On one hand, watching Harry get up and leave every time Riddle walked into a room has been very entertaining. And if the bets that her housemates are placing are any indication, they also find it amusing. On the other hand, not knowing things bothers her. She prides herself on knowing nearly everything that’s going on in the school, and not knowing information of that caliber has been a source of great pain for her. But on yet another hand, the mystery surrounding this situation makes it all the more intriguing.

She rubs her eyes and looks again.

And indeed, it’s Riddle sitting on the couch in front of the fireplace, engrossed in some huge, leather-bound tome that looks like it’s definitely not legal.

Harry appears to be playing chess with Orion, staring intently at the chessboard, oblivious to the world around him.

“Am I hallucinating?” she asks. The chances of a hallucination are infinitely higher than the chances of Harry and Tom willingly spending time within a 100 feet of each other. In fact, she would be more inclined to believe that Slughorn is desperately in love with Dippet, than that Harry and Tom are capable of peaceful cohabitation.

“No, I don’t think you are” says Lizzie, looking every bit as shocked as Dorea feels. “Or maybe you are. Maybe we both are.”

Tom flips a page in his book and Harry moves his bishop to capture Orion's rook. They're here. They're real. They're not glaring daggers at each other.

“I never thought I’d live to see the day” Dorea mutters and, with one last look at the boys, heads towards her dormitory.

This is getting interesting.


End file.
